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SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
After a portrait painted in 1795. 


The Academy Classics 


THREE NARRATIVE POEMS 


COLERIDGE: THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 
ARNOLD: SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 
TENNYSON: ENOCH ARDEN 


EDITED BY 
GEORGE A. WATROUS, A.M. 


REVISED BY 
A. B.*pE MILLE, A.M. 


SIMMONS COLLEGE, BOSTON 


ASTenyaNee AWN Dae CON 


BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 
ATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO 


COPYRIGHT, 1898 AND 1924 
BY GEORGE A. WATROUS 


NAI 


Norwood jpress 
J. 8S. Cushing Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 


PREFACE. 


THE purpose of this volume of the Academy Series is to 
offer in a single book the three narrative poems set by the 
New York Regents for a part of second-year English. It 


is believed that the nature of the poems readily admits 
such grouping, and that the combination will be a con- 
< venience for teachers and a saving for students. Schools 


on which offer only the reading required for entrance to 


=~ college, and would therefore need only The Ancient 


=i~ 


~ Mariner, may find the present volume of advantage, in 


— that its use will permit the student to make comparison 
\S with other narrative compositions. The text has been 


// Dec 4/ 


carefully chosen in each instance. 
The editor gratefully acknowledges his obligations to 


« other workers in the same field. The plan of the book is 


shis own, but in the execution of that plan many sources 
Shave been freely drawn upon. The aim in the preparation 
~of the notes has been to suggest to the student such other 


Sreading as will help him to interpret for himself the poem 


<jin hand. The map to make clear the geography of Sohrab 


and Rustum was made by Miss Alice Derfla Howes, to 
“whom the editor would also acknowledge his LeHORRE, for 
valuable suggestions embodied in the notes. 


6 GwwA, W. 


Utica Frem ACADEMY, 
October, 1898. 


li 


11 76889 


EREBAGE TO -THE@PRESEN RE bDirLiOns 


Since the first edition of this book was published, twenty- 
five years ago, changes in the size of our public schools 
and in the type of pupils have created some difficult prob- 
lems. The great increase of attendance throws a strain 
upon the library facilities which is not easy to meet. High 
school pupils of the present day engage in widely varied 
outside activities ; many of them are disinclined to consult 
books of reference ;. others approach the study of literature 
with little or no background. In preparing a new edition 
of Three Narrative Poems, therefore, it seemed wise to 
increase the informational equipment. To this end, the 
lives of the poets have been entirely rewritten; the notes 
have been simplified and much enlarged; and a full list 
of practical topics has been added for use in oral and 
written work. 

It is hoped that these revisions and additions will prove 
definitely helpful both to the general student and to those 
who are preparing for College Entrance Examinations. 


A. B. pE M. 


Stumons CouueEGceE, 
February, 1924. 


iv 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTION 


LIFE OF COLERIDGE 
List oF CHIEF WORKS . : : 


Lire oF ARNOLD 
List oF CHIEF WORKS . ‘ : 


Lire oF TENNYSON . 
List oF CHIEF WORKS . P : 


Note ON NARRATIVE POETRY 


TEXT 


RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 
SoHRAB AND RustTuM 
Enocu ARDEN . 


NOTES 


NOTES ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
TypicAL PASSAGES FROM THE POEM 


QUESTIONS AND Topics FOR DiscuUSSION 


NoTEes ON SOHRAB AND RuSsTUM 
TYPpIcaAL PASSAGES FROM THE POEM 


QUESTIONS AND Topics FOR DiscuUssION 


Notes on Enocu ARDEN 
TYPICAL PASSAGES FROM THE POEM 


QUESTIONS AND Topics FOR DIscuSssION 


GENERAL QUESTIONS ON THE THREE POEMS . 


Vv 


25 


LIST OR MIEGUSTRARLONS: 


Samuel Taylor Coleridge 3 : . ; i Frontispiece 
FACING PAGY 
Matthew Arnold . : ; ; : : ; . SEXY 
Alfred, Lord Tennyson . : é : ; : ; Boa 
He stoppeth one of three i : , : : ; uh 
“ And I had done a hellish thing.” . : ‘ : ‘ ; + 
“Instead of the Cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung.” . : : ‘ : : 2 5 
“The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea.” . ; : : : JAZ 
“Dear Lord! it hath a fendiah hea tas ; ; : airasae 
“© shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!”’ . : . - eed 
Map to illustrate Sohrab and Rustum . , é ; re 7 4f 
“IT came among the Tartars and bore arms.” . : : ees 
Held a falcon on his wrist A : ; : : Sky 
“Heap a stately mound above my bones, 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all.” 5 ; : : oumeOU 
Three children of three houses : ‘ ; é ‘ aed 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go . ; : ; a iy 
“T am content,’’ he answer’d, “to be loved 
A little after Enoch.” : ; : wi val 
There often as he watch’d or aeonvd to wate 
So still, the golden lizard on him es : : : mare yf) 
She wanted water . f : : A ; rae 1 oF 
But Enoch yearn’d to see her face aeain : ; q ‘ See its t 


INTRODUCTION. 


SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
(1772-1834.) 


SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, the youngest of a large 
family, was born ina village of Devonshire, England, on 
October 21, 1772. His father was a country 
clergyman in moderate circumstances, and wel- 
comed the opportunity which came when the 
boy was ten years old to send him toa free school in Lon- 
don. This school was the famous Christ’s Hospital ?; 
widely known as the “ Bluecoat School,” from the uniform 
worn by the scholars. Here he spent about eight years, 
and suffered some hardships — though in little greater de- 
gree, probably, than was usual with the schools of the time. 

He seems always to have been popular-* Chief among his 
friends of those early days was Charles Lamb, afterwards 

the well-beloved author of the Essays of Elia. 
OS Lamb was younger than Coleridge and from the 
first greatly admired his schoolmate, whom he 
describes as a ‘‘Logician, Metaphysician, Bard,’’ and as 
“an inspired charity boy.”’ The probability is that Coler- 
idge already exercised those fascinating powers of conversa- 


At Christ’s 
Hospital. 


1 Christ’s Hospital was so named from one of the meanings of the Latin 
word hospes, a guest; a hospital, a place for those who needed shelter. 
It was founded by King Edward VI. (1547-1553) as a school for ‘‘the 
maintenance and education of a certain number of poor children born 
of citizens of London.’”’ The school occupied the original site in London 
until 1902, when it was moved to Sussex. In Coleridge’s time there were 
about 700 boys. 

Vii 


Viil INTRODUCTION. 


tion which many years later led Cariyle to characterize him 
as ‘‘the most surprising talker extant in this world . . . to 
some small minority, the most excellent.”’ The life at the 
school has been charmingly pictured in Lamb’s familiar 
“essay, Christ’s Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago. 
Coleridge’s school career ended in 1791, when he won an 
‘“‘Exhibition”’ Scholarship at Cambridge, and entered the 
University. Like a number of other great 
writers, he was not distinguished by any 
marked regard for academic requirements and 
never took a degree. He showed his intellectual capacity 
by winning the gold medal for a Greek ode in 1792, but 
thereafter the irresolution and lack of concentration which 
were the bane of his life became evident in everything he 
undertook. His interests turned uncertainly to poetry, 
to medicine, to metaphysics. At last he left the Uni- 
versity secretly and went to London. Following a night 
in the streets, he enlisted in a regiment of dragoons, under 
the name of Silas Titus Cumberback. Of his military 
qualities there is little to be reperted — he himself said 
that he hardly knew one end of a horse from the other — but 
he charmed his brothers-in-arms by his eloquence, and in 
some cases wrote their love-letters for them; surely a trib- 
ute tohis genius. Aftera short time his friends secured his 
discharge and returned him to Cambridge. Soon, however, 
he left the University permanently, and went to Bristol. 
Living in Bristol at the time was Robert Southey, whom 
Coleridge had met at Cambridge. The two young men 
renewed their acquaintance. It was the period 
when the French Revolution and the great 
changes incident thereto had filled the hearts 
of all generous youths with dreams of liberty, freedom, 


At Cam- 
bridge. 


Robert 
Southey. 


INTRODUCTION. lp 


and equality — dreams that were recalled in the familiar 
passage written long afterwards by Wordsworth: 


“Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, 
But to be young was very heaven, oh, times 
In which the meagre stale forbidding ways 
Of custom, law and statute, took at once 
The attraction of a country in romance.” 


‘The friends, stirred by the spirit of the day, but dowered 
with more enthusiasm than knowledge of the world, 
evolved a communistic system which they called ‘ pan- 
tisocracy,”’ and for the development of which they pro- 
posed to emigrate to America and found an ideal society 
on the banks of the Susquehanna. This fantastic scheme 
came to naught. Southey married, and changed his 
opinion as to the duties that lay before him; Coleridge 
married likewise, choosing the sister of Southey’s wife. 
Yor a brief period he was settled and happy. But he 
was not destined either to peace or to happiness. He 
had become addicted to the use of opium, and from the 
effect of this habit as well as from the urge of his restless 
temperament he found it impossible to remain contented 
in the same environment for any considerable period. _ 

At this stage in his career, when his mind “was filled 
with the chaos of a thousand visionary plans,’ he met the 
man who exercised upon him the strongest influence of 
his life. William Wordsworth, with his sister 
Dorothy, came to live in Somersetshire, in 
the south of England. Coleridge made their 
acquaintance and the three became close friends. Under 
the stimulus of this intimate association, which filled 
a need in Coleridge’s nature that had never been satisfied 
before, he produced, between 1797 and 1802, the greatest 


The Words- 
worths. 


x INTRODUCTION. 


work of his life. To these years belong The Ancieni 
Mariner, Kubla Khan, Christabel, Osorio—a_ tragedy 
brought out later on in London under the name of Re- 
morse — the Ode to France, the Hymn to Sunrise, and an 
excellent translation of Schiller’s Wallenstein. : 

The Wordsworths, for their part, were strongly drawn 
to their brilliant young friend. ‘At first,’’ writes Doro- 
thy, ‘I thought him very plain; that is, for about three 
minutes. He is pale, thin, has a wide mouth, thick lips, 
and not very good teeth, longish, loose-growing, curling, 
rough black hair. But if you hear him speak for five 
minutes you think no more of them. . . . He is a wonder- 
ful man; his conversation teems with soul, and mind, 
and spirit.’’ 

~The outcome of the friendship between Coleridge and 
Wordsworth was the publication in 1798 of Lyrical Bal- 

lads, one of the most important books that 
Sees, ever came from the press. We shall have 

occasion to refer to it later. It was planned, 
as Wordsworth says, to defray the expenses of a walking 
trip among the Quantock Hills; the modest sum of £5 was 
soon realized by its sale — though the volume brought 
in little more than the amount desired. 

William Hazlitt, one of the most interesting of English 
Hazlitt’s critical writers, gives an estimate of the men, 
Opinion. both of whom he knew at this time: 

“Tn the afternoon Coleridge took me over to Alfoxden, a romantic 
old family mansion of the St. Aubins, where Wordsworth lived. 
Wordsworth himself was from home, but his sister kept house, 

and set before us a frugal repast, and we had free access to her 
brother’s poems, the ‘Lyrical Ballads,’ which were still in man- 


uscript. I dipped into a few of these with great satisfaction 
and with the faith of a novice. . . .”’ Coleridge “lamented that 


INTRODUCTION. pd 


Wordsworth was not prone enough to belief in the traditional super- 
stitions of the place, and that there was a something corporeal, a 
matter-of-factness, a clinging to the palpable or often to the petty 
in his poetry, in consequence. We went over to Alfoxden again 
the day following, and Wordsworth read us the story of ‘Peter 
Bell’ in the open air. There is a chant in the recitation both of — 
Coleridge and Wordsworth, which acts as a spell upon the reader 
and disarms the judgment. Perhaps they have deceived them- 
selves by making use of this ambiguous accompaniment. Col- 
eridge’s manner is more full, animated, and varied ; Wordsworth’s 
more equable, sustained, and internal. Coleridge has told me 
that he himself liked to compose in walking over uneven ground, 
or breaking through the straggling branches of a copsewood, 
whereas Wordsworth always composed walking up and down a 
straight gravel walk, or in some spot where the continuity of his 
verse met with no collateral interruptions.”’ 


The story of Coleridge’s life up to 1816 is a record of 
restless wandering. He traveled in Germany; he was 
for a time secretary to the Governor at Malta ; 
he visited Rome; he strayed about various 
parts of England. In 1809 we find him at 
Grasmere, temporarily under the helpful influence of 
Wordsworth; in 1810 he forsook the Lakes and deserted 
his family, who were left to the care of the generous- 
hearted Southey. For the next few years ‘‘we can fol- 
low him but dimly.”’ In 1813 Byron, then at the height 
of his popularity, used his great influence to bring out 
Remorse at Drury Lane Theater. About the same time 
Coleridge was lecturing in London on Shakespeare, Mil- 
ton, and the early dramatists. ‘‘I do hope,” writes a 
friend, ‘‘he will have the steadiness to go on with the 
lectures to the end. It would be so great a point gained 


Restless 
Years. 


if he could but pursue one object without interruption. 
_ He surpasses himself,” continues this friendly critic, “in 


xi INTRODUCTION. 


the art of talking in a very interesting way without speak- 
ing at all upon the subject announced. ... As evidence 
of splendid thought, and rare powers of expression and 
fancy, they are all that his hearers can wish; but as a 
discharge of his undertaking, a fulfillment of his promise 
to the public, they give his friends great uneasiness.”’ 

An end came, however, to this unhappy period. In 
1816 Coleridge went to live with Dr. Gillman, at High- 
gate near London, and here he passed the re- 
mainder of his life. The Gillmans not only 
gave him the medical attendance which he 
Hate needed, but added the ministrations of a devoted 
friendship. Freed from the worst effects of his opium 
habit, he was able, as a recent writer puts it, to ‘““make 
some salvage from the wreck.” He wrote practically 
nothing — it was as a conversationist that he found 
mental activity — but he published several works that 
had been written before, and he collected and issued a 
complete edition of his writings. 

Of Coleridge at this last stage of his career, when he had 
reached “‘port after stormy seas,’’ some interesting ac- 
counts have come down to us. Charles Lamb, 
his life-long friend, spoke of him after his 
whimsical fashion as “an archangel, slightly 
damaged.’ But the truest, if not the most kindly, picture 
was drawn (as in so many other instances) by Carlyle. 
“‘Coleridge,”’ he said, ‘‘sat on the brow of Highgate Hill 
in those years, looking down on London and its smoke- 
tumult like a sage escaped from the inanity of life’s battle, 
attracting towards him the thoughts of innumerable 
brave souls still engaged there.’’ He seems to have pro- 
duced an effect of infinite capacity, not realizable in him- 


Dr. Gill- 
man. 


The Clos- 
ing Period. 


INTRODUCTION. Xili 


self, but strong and helpful in the effect on other intel- 
ligences. Carlyle again: 


‘*A sublime man; who alone in those dark days had saved his 
crown of spiritual manhood; escaping from the black material- 
isms and revolutionary deluges with ‘God, Freedom, Immor- 
tality’ still his; a king of men. The practical intellects of the 
world did not much heed him, or carelessly reckoned him a 
metaphysical dreamer; but to the rising spirits of the young 
generation he had this dusky sublime character, and sat there as 
a kind of Magus, girt in mystery and enigma.” 


Of his personal appearance : 


“The good man, he was now growing old, towards sixty, per- 
haps; and gave you the idea of a life that had been full of suffer- 
ings; a life heavy laden, half vanquished, still swimming painfully 
in seas of manifold physical and other bewilderment. Brow and 
head were round and of massive weight, but the face was flabby 
and irresolute. The deep eyes of a light hazel were as full of 
sorrow as of inspiration; confused pain /ooked mildly from them, 
as in a kind of mild astonishment.’’ 


‘His conversation was stimulating in a high degree, as many 
have borne witness; yet its manner — at least to the 
clear and logical mind of Carlyle — was incoherent : 


“He began anywhere; you put some question to him, made some 
suggestive observation; instead of answering this, or decidedly 
setting out towards an answer of it, he would accumulate for- 
midable apparatus, logical swim-bladders, transcendental life- 
preservers, and other precautionary and vehiculatory gear for 
setting out; perhaps did at last get under way — but was swiftly 
solicited, turned aside by the flame of some radiant new game on 
this hand or on that into new courses and ever into new... . 
Eloquent, artistically expressive words you always had; piercing 
radiances of a most subtle insight came at intervals; tones of 
noble pious sympathy were never wanting long.” 


X1V INTRODUCTION. 


Coleridge died at Highgate on July 25, 1834. None of 
his old friends was there at the last. Lamb felt the loss 
too deeply. “His great and dear spirit haunts me,” 
he wrote afterwards. ‘Never saw I his likeness, nor 
probably the world can see again.’? Wordsworth broke 
down on learning of his death, calling him ‘‘the most 
wonderful man I have ever known.”’ 

At no time of his life — not even in his darkest hour — 
does there seem to have been any doubt of Coleridge’s 

supreme poetic gifts. He was ‘‘an uncrowned 
Reaee king, carrying the seal of genius openly on his 

brow.” Yet the sum total of the work which 
reveals his power is less than that of any other poet of 
the first rank. The Ancient Mariner and two or three 
other poems, some brilliant Shakespeare criticism, certain 
noble passages in the history of his thought which he called 
Biographia_ LInteraria — these constitute his enduring 
titles to immortality. It is to the quality of his work that 
we must look if we would understand his unquestioned 
place in English poetry. 

The quality is unique. In his greatest verse Coleridge 
was able to infuse the beauty of thought and expression 
with something higher, 

“to add the gleam, 

The light that never was on sea or land, 

The consecration, and the Poet’s dream.” 
The phrase is Wordsworth’s, and might well have been 
written of Coleridge, for the reader will find this indefinable 
trait in the magic of The Ancient Mariner, in the super- 
natural witchery of Christabel, or in that marvelous 
dream-fragment called Kubla Khan. His command of 
language was inimitable; his metrical form seemed to 


INTRODUCTION. XV 


mold itself to the thought; his melody of diction has not 
been surpassed in literature. The exquisite little pictures 
of things familiar or imagined, which occur in the poems 
- mentioned, show a felicity of imagery unlike anything we 
see elsewhere. His achievement was work of mystery and 
- imagination, expressed in terms of the highest art. ‘“‘Cer- 
tain weaknesses in his character,’”’ says Professor Neilson, 
“prevented the world from reaping the full harvest of his 
marvelous intellect and imagination ; yet in his best poems 
and criticisms we have a handful of masterpieces.”’ 


CHIEF WORKS OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 


Moral and Political Lectures, 1795. 

The Watchman, 1796. 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (in Lyrical Ballads), 1798. 

Translation of Wallenstein, 1800. 

Remorse, 1816. (Originally named Osorio, and written in 1797.) 

Kubla Khan, Christabel, etc., 1816. 
The former was written in 1797, the latter in 1801. 

Biographia Literaria, 1817. 

Sibylline Leaves, 1817. ‘‘Contains the whole of the author’s poeti- 
cal compositions, from 1793 to the present time.”’ 

The Poetical Works of 8S. T. Coleridge, 1829. An edition in three 
volumes, which was revised by the author himself. 


MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
(1822-1888.) 


MatrHew ARNOLD was born at Laleham in the county 
of Middlesex, England, in 1822. His father was the 
famous Dr. Thomas Arnold of Rugby School 
—the “Doctor” of Tom Brown’s Schooldays. 
Dr. Arnold was one of the most remarkable 
figures of the nineteenth century in the educational world. 


Birth and 
Parentage. 


Xvl INTRODUCTION. 


He took up his work at Rugby in 1828. The following 
words, written more than fifty years after his death, show 
what manner of man he was: ‘‘No one made a deeper 
change in education. As much as any one who could be 
named, Arnold helped to form the standard of manly 
worth by which Englishmen judge and submit to be 
judged... . A manof action himself, he sent out from 
Rugby men fit to do the work of the world. ... Evenin 
the volume of national life as it flows today, there may be 
detected the effect of the pure, bracing stream which long 
ago joined it.’’ The influence of the father — “zealous, 
beneficent, firm’’ —is plainly to be traced in the life of 
the son; in his excellent work in the field of education 
and the undeviating loyalty of his writings to the highest 
standards of truth and justice. 

Matthew Arnold was sent first to a private tutor at 
Laleham, and then at the age of thirteen to Winchester 
School. A year later he was removed to Rugby, 
where he remained until he went up to Balliol 
College, Oxford, in 1841. His university career was a 
distinguished one. He gained the Newdigate Prize for 
his poem on Oliver Cromwell, won a scholarship, grad- 
uated with honors and in 1845 was made a Fellow of Oriel, 
the highest university distinction obtainable by an Ox- 
ford graduate. He moved in a brilliant circle of friends, 
chief among them being Arthur Hugh Clough, in whose 
memory he wrote the elegiac poem Thyrsis. ‘His per- 
fect self-possession,’’ writes one of these friends, describing 
the man at this time, “the sallies of his ready wit, the 
humorous turn which he could give to any subject which 
he handled, his gaiety, exuberance, versatility, audacity, 
and unfailing command of words, made him one of the 


Education. 


INTRODUCTION. XVll 


most popular and successful undergraduates Oxford has 
ever known.” His own feeling for Oxford is well ex- 
pressed in a familiar passage : 


“Beautiful city! so venerable, so lovely, so unravaged by the 

fierce intellectual life of our century, so serene! 
‘There are our young barbarians, all at play.’ 

And yet, steeped in sentiment as she lies, spreading her gardens to 
the moonlight, and whispering from her towers the last enchant- 
ments of the Middle Age, who will deny that Oxford, by her ineffa- 
ble charm, keeps ever calling us nearer to the true goal of all of us, 
to the ideal, to perfection, — to beauty, in a word, which is only 
truth seen from another side ?”’ 


After taking his degree, Arnold returned to Rugby 
where for a short time he taught classics. In 1847 he 
became secretary to Lord Landsdowne, a 
Inspector of Hosition which he resigned in 1851 on receiving 
the important appointment of Inspector of 
Schools. This place he held until 1886—two years 
before his death. There were few posts in the public 
service which offered a greater opportunity for influencing 
personally so large a number of people. While the work 
was not altogether congenial to him, he none the less 
developed its possibilities in a manner altogether strong 
and wise. One observer noted that his appearance in 
a school was like a ray of light when a shutter is suddenly 
opened in a darkened room, and that he was less interested 
in high marks than in happy children and sympathetic 
teachers. No small part of his influence was due to “‘his 
fine taste, his gracious and kindly manner, his honest and 
generous recognition of any new form of excellence which 
he observed.”’ 
The most far-reaching effect of his work is found in the 


Xvill INTRODUCTION. 


annual Reports, which attracted much public attention, 
and which are still worthy of study. He insisted, for 
instance, upon the need of including in the course of even 
elementary schools some ‘“‘formative”’ ingredients — that 
is, Studies (such as poetry) which had no immediate bearing 
upon the industrial career of the pupils. He further held 
that the competent instructor should broaden his outlock 
on life by personal cultivation. ‘‘The teacher,” says the 
Report of 1878, ‘‘ will open the children’s soul and imagina- 
tion the better, the more he has cleared his own.’’ These 
words would serve as sound doctrine at the present time. 

His educational duties involved several visits to the 
Continent as commissioner to study European methods. 
At various times he reported upon schools in 
France, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Ger- 
many. Such points as the following were 
taken under consideration: free education, quality of 
education, training and pensions of teachers, compulsory 
attendance, and release from school. His investigations 
were always carried out in thorough fashion; and although 
his Reports — which were afterwards published as sep- 
arate books — have today chiefly an historical interest, 
yet they formed at the time of their appearance a most 
useful body of educational theory. 

Like several of his famous contemporaries, Arnold went 
to the United States to lecture. He was not anxious for 
the experience, “‘I don’t like going,” he said. 
“T don’t like lecturing. I don’t like living in 
public, and I wish it was well over. I shall be glad, how- 
ever, to see an American common school with my own 
eyes.”’ He gave two lecture courses in this country, in 
1883 and 1886, and a summary of his impressions and his 


Commis- 
sioner. 


In America. 


INTRODUCTION. ee 


lectures may be found in his collected works — A Word 
More about America, Discourses in America, and Civiliza- 
tion in the United States. 

His busy and useful life ended suddenly in 1888. He 
died at Liverpool, and was buried in Laleham churchyard. 
Besides his success in the field of education, 
Arnold won high rank as a poet, and was among 
the most distinguished critics of the nineteenth century. 

His first volume of verse, The Strayed Reveller and Other 
Poems, appeared in 1848. It was soon followed by two 

more collections, the latter of which was pub- 
eee as lished in 1853, under the title of Poems by Matthew 

Arnold, a New Edition, and brought him the 
fame that he deserved. Among the poems included were 
Sohrab and Rustum, considered by many to be the author’s 
masterpiece; The Scholar-Gypsy; and the exquisite little 
lyric, Requiescat. The preface to this volume was of 
great importance, because it stated Arnold’s theory of the 
poetic art. Some of the points which he established, in 
this and other writings on the subject, may be mentioned. 
The best poetry must possess a ‘‘high seriousness,’’ in 
its aim and its expression; form and matter are equally 
important and must receive equal consideration; ‘‘the 
value of a poem consists more in the force and truth of the 
total impression, than in isolated fine thoughts sparkling 
forth in the heat of composition.” 

His theories were consistently exemplified by his own 
work, and his critical opinions were listened to with the 
ricer more respect because of the fine quality of his 
and Prac- poetry. In none of his poems, perhaps, are 

these theories more fully illustrated than in 
Sohrab and Rustum. “The Poet,” he said in the 1853 


Death. 


xx INTRODUCTION. 


Preface, ‘‘has in the first place to select an excellent ac- 
tion; and what actions are the most excellent? Those, 
certainly, which appeal most powerfully to the great 
primary human affections: to the elementary feelings 
which subsist permanently in the race and which are 
independent of time.’’ Nothing could appeal more 
strongly to the emotions than the involuntary death of 
a son at the hands of his father; while the poem possesses 
that high seriousness, simplicity of form, and unity of 
total impression which were the canons of Arnold’s art. 
The wisdom of his theory and the excellence of his prac- 
tice led to his appointment in 1857 as Professor of Poetry 
at Oxford. This position he held for ten years, though 
after 1860 he wrote little poetry. It was at Oxford, during 
this time, that much of his best critical work was done. 

In his prose Arnold attains a confident attitude towards 
life; but his poetry frequently reflects the intellectual 
struggle through which he passed. Many of 
his poems are conceived in a mood of doubt. 
But however keen his scepticism may be, we 
are always conscious of the mind of a seeker after truth 
who is brave, honest, and sincere. Thus, even when their 
thought is pessimistic, the poems are to those who under- 
stand them aright a help and a stimulus. A few of the 
most typical may be suggested here. They are: Dover 
Beach, A Summer Night, and Philomela; Shakespeare; 
Rugby Chapel, the noble lines in memory of his father ; 
Geist’s Grave, The Forsaken Merman, and Isolation. In 
all his poetry he teaches firmness in meeting that which 
we cannot understand, courage in the face of the inevi- 
table. Some lines from The Better Part may be taken to 
epitomize his thought : 


His Poetic 
Note. 


> INTRODUCTION. Xxl1 


‘Hath man no second life? Pitch this one high! 
Sits there no judge in Heaven, our sin to see? 
More strictly, then, the inward judge obey ! 

Was Christ a man like us? AA, let us try 
If we then, too, can be such men as he! 


The least successful part of his poetry was his dramatic 
work. He wrote three dramas, following with great 
fidelity the Greek models. They were named: 
The Strayed Reveller, Empedocles on Hina, and 
Merope. But his genius was not adapted to this form of 
art. The poems contain some brilliant passages and 
some beautiful nature pictures, but they fail in the essen- 
tials —in plot, in character-drawing, and in the effec- 
tive control of action. 

Most of Arnold’s poetry, as we have seen, was written 
before he was forty; his work in prose criticism began 

in 1861 with the publication of his lecture 
aa as On Translating Homer. This was the first 

step in the conscious effort, continued through- 
out his life, to create higher standards both in thinking 
and in living. In presenting his ideas, he used what has 
been termed the method of criticism; that is, he devel- 
oped his thesis by comment, by suggestion, by per- 
suasion. Criticism was defined by him as ‘“‘the disin- 
terested endeavor to know and propagate the best that 
has been thought and said in the world.”’ To know the 
best in literature, one must make use of ‘‘touchstones”’ 
drawn from the great writers of the past ; only by a knowl- 
edge of the best can the mind be freed from narrow views 
and false judgments. To attain the best in life, one must 
seek culture — the ‘‘ideal of all-round perfection, of sweet- 
ness and light.”” The style in which these ideas are 


Dramas. 


XXll INTRODUCTION. 


formulated is singularly lucid and urbane; it is some- 
times marked by a pleasant kind of incisive irony which 
is very effective. Repetition is frequently employed to 
drive home a point, as may be seen in this passage about 
the Greek poets : 


“No other poets have lived so much by the imaginative reason ; 
no other poets have made their works so well balanced, no other 
poets have so well satisfied the thinking power; have so well 
satisfied the religious sense.”’ 


While his works were concerned primarily with problems 
of the time, yet they contain much of permanent value. 
= a The Essaysin Criticism, published in 1865, placed 
Literature him among the greatest contemporary essayists. 
pac JAE first, as in this volume, the subjects that at- 
tracted him were literary. He laid down principles of 
sound judgment and canons of good taste which were well 
illustrated by the classical dignity and simplicity of his 
own best work. But his conclusion that the highest type 
of poetry must be a “criticism of life’? came to imply not 
only artistic appeal but the deeper questions of ethics and 
morality. Thus, in Culture and Anarchy, which appeared 
in 1869, he attacked the narrowness and the false stand- 
ards of his fellow-countrymen, and pointed the way to 
higher ideals in life and thought. Other books which 
followed — Friendship’s Garland, Interature and Dogma, God 
and the Bible — carry on the fight against the weaknesses 
which he deplored in society, in politics, and in religion. 

Culture is a word that has come to have some unfor- 
tunate connotations; but with Arnold it signified nothing 

less than “‘the measure of the stature of the 
perfect man”; it embodied perfection, not 
only in things literary, but in all the varied reiations of 


“ Culture.’’ 


INTRODUCTION. XXill 


life. The reader of the present day finds a great deal 
that is timely, as well as stimulating, in the high thought 
and lucid expression of Arnold’s prose. 

The personal qualities of Matthew Arnold are justly 
estimated in the words of one who knew him well: 


“He was most distinctly on the side of human enjoyment. He 
conspired and contrived to make things pleasant. Pedantry 
he abhorred. He was a man of this life and the world. 
A severe critic of this world indeed he was; but, find- 
ing himself in it, and not precisely knowing what is 
beyond it, like a brave and true hearted man, he set himself to 
make the best of it. Its sights and sounds were dear to him. 
The ‘uncrumpling fern, the eternal moonlit snow,’ the ‘red 
grouse springing at our sound,’ the tinkling bells of the ‘high- 
pasturing kine,’ the vagaries of men, of women, and dogs, their 
odd ways and tricks, whether of mind or manner, all delighted, 
amused, tickled him. 

“Tn a sense of the word which is noble and blessed, he was of 
the earth earthy. His mind was based on the plainest possible 
things. What he hated most was the fantastic — the far-fetched, 
all-elaborated fancies, and strained interpretations. He stuck 
to the beaten track of human experience, and the broader the 
better. This is his true note.” 


An Esti- 
mate. 


This view may be supplemented by the opinion of John 
Morley, historian, critic, and discriminating friend: 


“He was incapable of sacrificing the smallest interest of any- 
body to his own; he had not a spark of envy or jealousy; he 
stood well aloof from all the hustlings and jostlings by which 
selfish men push on; he bore life’s disappointments — and he 
was disappointed in some reasonable hopes — with good nature 
and fortitude; he cast no burden upon others, and never shrank 
from bearing his own share of the daily load to the last ounce of 
it; he took the deepest, sincerest, and most active interest in 
the well-being of his country and his countrymen.” 


XX1V INTRODUCTION. 


CHIEF WORKS OF MATTHEW ARNOLD. 


Poetry : 
The Strayed Reveller, and Other Poems, 1849. 
Poems, 1853. 
This volume contained the famous Preface on poetry. Among 
the poems were Sohrab and Rustum, Requiescat, and The Scholar- 


Gypsy. 

Merope; a Tragedy, 1858. 

New Poems, 1867. 
Among the poems were Dover Beach, Rugby Chapel, and A 
Southern Night. 

Thyrsis, 1866. 

Prose : 

Essays in Criticism, 1865. 

Culture and Anarchy, 1869. 

Friendship’s Garland, 1871. 

Literature and Dogma, 1873. 

Discourses in America, 1885. 

Essays in Criticism, Second Series, 1888. 


ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. 
(1809-1892. ) 


ALFRED TENNYSON, the most representative and most 
popular poet of the nineteenth century, was born in 
August 1809 at the village of Somersby, Lin- 

Bere colnshire. In a family of twelve children he 
was the third of eight brothers, two of whom 

besides himself showed poetic genius. His early train- 
ing was received chiefly from his father, a man of excep- 
tional gifts and strongly marked characteristics. Dur- 
ing his boyhood he gave some indication of the great 
powers which afterwards developed. When still very 
young, he wrote a poem on the death of his grandmother, 
for which he received from his grandfather the present of 


INTRODUCTION. XXV 


half a sovereign ($2.50) with the remark: “That is the first 
money, my boy, you’ve made by poetry, and, take my 
word for it, it will be the last.”” At the age of twelve he 
composed a long epic in imitation of Scott, with which 
his father was much impressed. ‘‘If that boy dies,’’ said 
ne, ‘“‘one of our greatest poets will have gone.”’ 

Such early experimenting led to a poetical venture with 
his brother Charles, a little volume called Poems by Two 
Brothers, published in 1826. Their aim was _ pocket- 
money; poetic fame was a secondary consideration. 
The proceeds were spent on a tour round the churches of 
Lincolnshire. The poems were not marked by any special 
promise of future achievement; they did manifest, how- 
ever, an unusual freedom from youthful crudities. 

Alfred and Charles went up to Cambridge in 1828 and 
entered at Trinity College. Life at the University influ- 
enced the poet through the men he met and the 
friends he made more than through academic 
opportunities. There gathered about him as 
time went on a brilliant group of undergraduates, a number 
of whom afterwards won fame in various walks of life. 
His closest friend was Arthur Henry Hallam, son of the 
great historian. A man of high attainments, his influence 
upon Tennyson’s career was strongly marked. In his 
memory was composed the poem In Memoriam, one 
of the author’s greatest works. During the autumn of 
1830, the two went to Spain to help the revolutionists in 
their struggle for freedom. ‘A wild time we had of it,” 
said Hallam; ‘‘I played my part as conspirator in a small 
way.” Nothing much was accomplished, however, ex- 
cept as the experience formed an outlet for the typical 
spirit of generous youth. 


University 
Career. 


XXVl INTRODUCTION. 


The growing poetic power of Tennyson was shown by}, 
his winning the Vice-Chancellor’s medal in 1829 with his} 
poem Timbuctoo, which in the opinion of good critics} 
manifested distinct promise. Later, in the year of the 
Spanish visit, he published his first independent volume — 
Poems, chiefly Lyrical. A volume by his brother Charles 
was issued about the same time, and the young authors 
must have been highly gratified by the testimony of Words- 
worth: ‘‘We have a respectable show of blossom in poetry 
— two brothers of the name of Tennyson; one in particu- 
lar not a little pleasing.’”’ Upon the death of his father in 
1831, Tennyson left the university without proceeding to 
a degree. 

His next book, Poems (1832) may fairly be considered 
the precursor of a new school of poetry. Its charm of 
diction and the highly “detorative” beauty 
in which its thoughts were clothed were typical . 
of the Tennysonian style and plainly showed 
the trend of his genius. They revealed fresh and unsus- 
pected possibilities of English verse. Among the poems 
in the collection were The Lady of Shallot, The Lotus- 
Eaters, A Dream of Fair Women, and The Palace of Art. 
Charles Dickens was especially impressed by the lines” 
from A Dream of Fair Women: 


Poems, 
1832. 


“Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, | 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes, 
Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates, 
And hushed seraglios.”’ 
“What a relief,’”’ he cried, ‘‘in these days to come upon 2 
man who can write!’? The remark may stand as an 
epitome of the opinion of discerning readers, for many 


felt that here at last was a worthy successor in the line 


INTRODUCTION. XXvll 


of the great English poets. On the other hand, some 
authorities handled the book severely, the criticism of 
the Edinburgh Quarterly being especially harsh. 
Tennyson was always sensitive to adverse criticism — 
though he usually profited by it — and the effect in this 
case was strong. About the same time, in 
yon Silent 1833, he also suffered the great grief of his life. 
Arthur Hallam his best-loved friend, died at 
‘Vienna, whither he had gone in quest of health. For ten 
years the poet suffered much from depression of spirits, 
and published nothing. He lived chiefly in London dur- 
ing these ‘“‘silent years.’”’ But the time was by no means 
lost, for there he met Carlyle. The influence of the 
great Scotchman is to be traced in the graver and more 
philosophic spirit of the later poems — more particularly 
In Memoriam. Carlyle himself found in Tennyson “a 
true human soul, or some approximation thereto, to whom 
your own soul can say, Brother !”’ 
From his clear insight comes this memorable picture: 


“A great shock of rough, dusty-dark hair; bright, laughing, 
hazel eyes; massive aquiline face, most massive, yet most 
delicate; of sallow brown complexion, almost Indian-looking ; 
clothes cynically loose, free and easy; smokes infinite tobacco. 
His voice is musically metallic — fit for loud laughter and pierc- 
ing wail, and all that may lie between; speech and speculation 
free and plenteous; I do not meet in these late decades such 
company over a pipe. We shall see what he will grow to.” 


The period of silence ended in 1842 with the publication 
of Poems in two volumes, the first principally composed 
of poems which had already appeared, the second entirely 
new. Among the new poems were Ulysses, Locksley Hall, 
The Vision of Sin, and Morte D’Arthur. Their indubitable 
qualities of beauty and strength set the seal upon his 


XXVlll INTRODUCTION. 


reputation, and caused Wordsworth to write: ‘“‘ He is de- 
cidedly the first of our living poets.” 

Tennyson always referred to the year 1850 as ‘‘ Annus 
Mirabilis” — the wonderful year—and he had _ good 
Toca reasons for doing so. It was marked by the 
nus Mira- publication of In Memoriam, in some respects 
ed his greatest poem; his marriage to Emily 
Sellwood; and his appointment to the office of Poet 
Laureate. The post had fallen vacant upon the death 
of Wordsworth, and the choice of the Government met 
with universal approval. The year marked, moreover, 
the beginning of almost unbroken happiness and good 
(ortune. To very few writers has it been given to en- 
joy continuous critical and popular approval, and to 
retain to the last the full enjoyment of intellectual and 
artistic powers. 

We must not forget, however, that with his supreme 
poetic gifts was combined a strongly ‘‘human”’ personality. 
Indeed, the charm of his companionship was to 
those who knew him quite equal to the delight 
of his poetry. Retiring as was his disposition naturally, 
he nevertheless had friends in all walks of life, owing with- 
out doubt to his sincerity and his sympathetic breadth 
of mind. Besides the noteworthy comment of Carlyle, 
we have other interesting sidelights on the poet at various 
stages of his career. ‘‘It is very possible,’ writes a friend 
in 1842, ‘‘you may come across him in a country inn, 
with a foot on each hob of the fireplace, a volume of Greek 
in one hand, his meerschaum in the other, so far advanced 
towards the seventh heaven that he would not thank 
you to call him back to this nether world.” 

The American poet Bayard Taylor stayed with him at 


Friends. 


INTRODUCTION. Xx1x 


Farringford in 1857. “I was struck,” he says, ‘‘by the 
variety of his knowledge. Nota little flower on the downs 
escaped his notice, and the geology of the coast, both 
terrestrial and submarine, was perfectly familiar to him. 
I thought of a remark I once heard from a distinguished 
English author (Thackeray), that Tennyson was the wis- 
est man he knew.”’ Speaking of his personal appearance, 
Taylor wrote that he was ‘‘tall and broad-shouldered as a 
son of Anak, with hair, beard, and eyes of Southern dark- 
ness.”” Hawthorne thought him ‘‘as un-English as pos- 
sible,’ yet not American; ‘I cannot well describe the dif- 
ference, but there was something more mellow in him, 
softer, sweeter, broader, more simple than we are apt 
to be.” 

As we have seen, [n Memoriam appeared some seventeen 
years after the death of the friend whose death it com- 
memorates. During the intermediary period 
the poem developed from a personal lament 
to a broadly philosophic expression of the great 
issues of faith and doubt, and the supreme questions of 
death and immortality. In form it is a series of beautiful 
lyrics unified by the solemn central theme. Tennyson 
said: “It is rather the cry of the whole human race than 
mine. In the poem altogether private grief swells out 
into thought of and hope for the whole world. It begins 
with a funeral and ends with a marriage, begins with death 
and ends with promise of new life.... It is a very 
impersonal poem, as well as personal. There is more 
about myself in Ulysses, which was written under the 
sense of loss and all that was gone by, but that life 
must still be fought out to the end.’”’ The whole is a sort 
of soul-history, through sorrow and despair to sanity and 


In Memo- 
riam. 


xxx INTRODUCTION. 


hope; a progress not unlike the experience recorded in 
Carlyle’s Sartor Resartus. 

Two other of the longer poems — The Princess and 
Maud — were published respectively in 1847 and 1855. 
The former is a treatment half serious and half fantastic 
of the place of woman in the modern world. It contains 
The Prin. passages of great beauty, and some songs which 
cess,and areamong the most charming in the language. 
one In so far as any solution of the problem is 
offered (and the poem is an amusing tale altogether apart 
from the problem involved), it is offered by ‘‘emphasiz- 
ing for us the laws of nature which determine in their in- 
exorable fashion the place of man and the place of woman 
in any social system which is to endure.” 

Maud is a monodrama; that is, it represents the vary- 
ing moods of a single character. As its author said, 
successive phases of passion in one person take the place 
of successive persons. It contains the expression of some 
of his strong feelings; the lyrics scattered throughout 
show him at his best ; it was, taken all in all, his favorite 
poem. “I’ve always said,’’ was his own comment, ‘that 
Maud and Guinevere were the finest things I’ve written.” 

Best known of all his writings, perhaps, are the Jdylls 
of the King. The stories of King Arthur and his Knights 

of the Round Table comprise the most im- 
se ine portant body of myth and legend in English 

annals, and they early attracted his attention. 
The Lady of Shalott appeared in 1832. The general sub- 
ject, once revolved in his mind, strongly aroused and 
engaged his interest. By 1859 he published the first 
collection of Idylls — Guinevere, Enid, Vivien, and Elaine ; 
the fragment called Morte D’Arthur, which determined 


INTRODUCTION. XXX] 


the metrical form of the whole series, had been included 
in the Poems of 1842. Other Idylls were written at in- 
tervals up to 1888; by that time the entire group, having 
undergone many changes and revisions both in title and 
form, assumed the shape in which we know them today. 

In their final form the Jdylls comprise a group of twelve 
narrative poems loosely bound together by their general 
relation to the Arthurian legend. Broadly 
speaking, they tell of the coming of the King, 
the destruction of wrong and oppression throughout his 
realm, the gradual appearance of evil among his knights, 
the ‘“‘last great battle in the West,’’ and the passing of 
Arthur to the ‘island valley of Avilion.’”’ At the same 
time, each Jdyl is complete in itself, and the whole poem 
approximates the epic type. But Tennyson himself 
knew that the finished work did not possess the unity 
conferred by one strong central figure, as is characteristic 
of epic poetry. Hence, he chose a title which indicates 
the nature of what he tried to do. The result of his long 
endeavor was not an epic in the true sense of the word; 
it was rather a presentation of a group of noble episodes, 
a series of pictures of the high glory of past legend, of 


Final Form. 


“old, forgotten, far-off things, 
And battles long ago.”’ 


But this is by no means all that he aimed at. Behind 
the beauty of the poetry, the richness of the imaginative 
treatment, the loftiness of the thought, is a 
deeper meaning. The story is ‘‘new-old, and 
shadowing Sense at war with Soul.” Of the 
complete work, Tennyson said: ‘‘The whole is a dream 
of man coming into practical life and ruined by one sin. 
Birth is a mystery, and death is a mystery, and in the 


The Alle- 
gory. 


Oo b) INTRODUCTION. 


midst lies the table-land of life, and its struggles and per- 
formance.’”’ The allegorical element is seen especially in 
The Coming of Arthur and The Holy Grail. It must be con- 
sidered, however, as subsidiary to the narrative. The [dylls 
are fascinating tales, and to the average reader their chief 
interest will always lie in their romantic treatment of men 
and events, the beauty of their background of medieval 
chivalry, and the fine perfection of their technical form. 

The various phases of English country life interested 
Tennyson at all times, and he wrote a number of poems 

which he termed English Idylls. They differ 
ae tags. widely from the Idylls of the King, chiefly 

in their simplicity. They have a quiet and 
characteristic charm. Among the best are: Enoch Arden, 
which is dealt with at length in another place; Dora, The 
Brook, and The Muller’s Daughter. To compare these 
vignettes of real life with the philosophic thought of In 
Memoriam, the spirit of revolt depicted in Maud or Locks- 
ley Hall, or with the confession of faith found in The 
Ancient Sage, is to gain an adequate idea of the range of 
Tennyson’s power. 

About the year 1875, Tennyson became interested in 
the composition of dramas. For a considerable period 
this form of poetry deeply engrossed him. 
But the result was not happy. His versatility 
was immense, and in every other poetic field he won suc- 
cess; here, he could not command it. Between 1875 and 
1884 he wrote a number of plays. Among them may be 
mentioned Harold, Becket, and Queen Mary, touching 
upon great epochs of English history, and The Foresters, 
a woodland drama founded on the Robin Hood legends. 
None of them, however, was marked by sufficient drama- 


The Dramas. 


INTRODUCTION. XX 


tic quality to hold the stage. Effective and beautiful 
in their language and their descriptive passages, they re- 
vealed no striking power of characterization, no com- 
mand of conversational brilliancy. 

The one gain from his experimenting in dramatic form 
was seen in some noble dramatic lyrics, in which his strong 
individualism and his sense of the picturesque enabled 
him to produce memorable effects. This is evident in 
the Ballads of 1880, where the dramatic feeling is expressed 
in a form wholly suited to his genius. We have the stirring 
appeal of ballads like The Revenge and The Defence of 
Lucknow, the grim pathos of Rizpah and The Sisters. 

The later poems, contained in Tirestas (1885), and 
Demeter (1889), show no trace of the intellectual de- 
terioration which so often is the sad accompa- 
niment of old age. The high seriousness of 
their outlook on life, and the full rich music of their verse, 
manifest the same noble qualities, set to a more solemn 
key, that had characterized the poet through all his long 
career. He died at Aldworth on October 6, 1892, crown- 
ing like his own Geraint, “‘a happy life with a fair death.” 
At the time there was actually in the press his last volume 
— The Death of Oenone, Akbar’s Dream, and Other Poems. 
In these poems the aged poet speaks of the meaning of 
life, the significance of death, of the need for a ‘‘faith 
beyond the forms of faith.’”’ Some lines from God and the 
Universe may well stand as his final message to the world : 


Lost Poems. 


“Spirit, nearing yon dark portal at the limit of thy human state, 

Fear not thou the hidden purpose of the Power which alone is 
great, 

Nor the myriad world, his shadow, nor the silent Opener of the 
Gate.” 


XXXiV INTRODUCTION. 


One or two other matters remain to be recorded. Ten. 
nyson had two places of residence after his marriage. 
One was the comfortable house at Farringford on the 
Isle of Wight, which he was very fond of and which is 
zommemorated in the lines, 

“|... far from noise and smoke of town, 
I watch the twilight falling brown 


All round a careless order’d garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. .. . 


‘* For groves of pine on either hand, 
To break the blast of winter, stand; 
And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a billow on chalk and sand.”’ 


After 1867 he reserved Farringford for the winter, and 
spent the summer and autumn at Aldworth in Surrey, 
where he built a beautiful home—‘‘a handsome and 
commodious house,”’ one of his visitors called it, ‘‘in a 
most inaccessible place.’’ A very practical recognition of his 
literary fame was the peerage offered to him by Gladstone, 
at the time Premier, as a mark of the national esteem. 
He accepted the honor, somewhat reluctantly, in 1883. 
The most touching tribute to Tennyson was that written 
oy his friend and fellow-artist, Robert Browning. It 
was voiced in a letter written just before his 
Browning's own death in 1889, on the occasion of the 
Laureate’s eightieth birthday : 

‘““My dear Tennyson : Tomorrow is your birthday, indeed a mem- 
orable one. Let me say I associate myself with the universal 
pride of our country in your glory, and in its hope that for many 
and many a year we may have your very self among us — secure 
that your poetry will be a wonder and delight to those appointed 
to come after. And for my own part, let me further say, I have 
loved you dearly. May God bless you and yours.” 


INTRODUCTION. XXXV 


CHIEF WORKS OF ALFRED TENNYSON. 


Poems by Two Brothers, 1826. 
Poems, 1832. 
Poems, 1842. 
The Princess; a Medley, 1847. 
In Memoriam, 1850. 
Maud, 1855. 
Idylls of the King, 1859. 

(Published in final form, 1888.) 
Enoch Arden, 1864. 
Queen Mary: a Drama, 1875. 
Harold: a Drama, 1876. 
Ballads and Other Poems, 1880. 
The Promise of May: a Drama, 1882. 
Becket, 1884. 
Tiresias, and Other Poems, 1885. 
Locksley Hall Sixty Years After, 1886. 
Demeter, and Other Poems, 1889. 
The Foresters, a romantic pastoral play, 1892. 
The Death of Oenone, 1892. 


A NOTE ON NARRATIVE POETRY. 


Poetry is usually divided into three classes: Lyric, 
Dramatic, and Narrative. Lyric poems deal in an emo- 
tional way with a single thought, feeling, or 
situation, and are generally short. Dramatic 
poetry comprises the great body of verse 
written primarily for presentation on the stage. Narra- 
tive poetry embraces the large group in which story- 
telling is the chief consideration. It has four divisions — 
the ballad, the epic, the romance, and the tale. 


Classes of 
Poetry. 


XxXxvl INTRODUCTION. 


The ballad is a poem which tells a story in the simplest | 
way. Ballads flourished principally in the fourteenth and 
fifteenth centuries. The early examples — 
such as Sir Patrick Spens, The Wife of Usher’s 
Well, and the Robin Hood cycle — were anonymous. 
They were characterized by extreme simplicity of thought 
and diction, and by certain elements of the grim and the 
pathetic. Later came ballads of known authorship 
showing a more conscious art — Tom Bowling, Sally in 
Our Alley, Lord Ullin’s Daughter, La Belle Dame Sans 
Merci, etc. In these the ballad simplicity persists, and 
there is found frequently the grim or the pathetic note 
which is equally characteristic. 

When Coleridge wrote The Ancient Mariner, he de- 
liberately chose the ballad form as best suited to his story. 
Thesan. It nas all the marks of the true ballad: the 
cient Mar- simple metrical structure (modified now and 
sea again), the straightforward narrative method, 
the grim or pathetic touches. Coleridge added, of course, 
his own contribution — great melodic charm, and nature 
pictures of wonderful beauty. But in all essentials his 
poem is characteristic, and is one of the best illustra- 
tions of the type. 

The epic is a long poem, written in stately verse and 
dealing with episodes in the life of some god, hero, or 
The Epic: mythical figure, about whom the action centers. 
potreD and To this type belongs Sohrab and Rustum. 

Arnold called his poem an “‘episode’’; it is 
not a complete epic, but tells of one episode in the life of 
the great Persian hero, Rustum. At the same time, it 
evinces the epic form and spirit. The verse is dignified, 
the simile is freely employed, and the action centers 


The Ballad. 


INTRODUCTION. XXXVI 


about the life of Rustum. Moreover, the poem mani- 
fests the essential epic ‘‘objectivity’’ — the events of 
the story speak for themselves without any personal re- 
flections on the part of the author. 
The terms “romance”’ and ‘‘tale”’ are somewhat loosely 
employed. The former is used of a poem that is fabulous 
or romantic in tone, as Spenser’s Faerie Queene 
peeanee, or Scott’s Marmion. The latter designates 
stories like many of Chaucer’s Canterbury 
Tales, or those contained in William Morris’s Earthly 
Paradise. Both forms are widely distributed in English 
literature. 
The tale is well represented by the third poem in this 
book, Enoch Arden. This is primarily a story, and moves 
definitely to a tragic conclusion. In the 
peace Ar- opinion of some critics, the simplicity of the 
narrative is unduly overlaid, by the elaborate 
beauty of language and imagery. Yet the Tennyson 
lover will be slow to admit that this emphasis on beauty 
in any way detracts from the general effect, and Enoch 
Arden will probably remain, among stories of English 
country life in poetical form, the most representative and 
popular. The reader would do well, in order to judge 
the range of the tale in narrative poetry, to compare 
Tennyson’s poem with Chaucer’s Knightes Tale, Long- 
fellow’s The Bell of Atri, and Masefield’s Right Royal. 
Two other forms may be included under the general 
head of narrative poetry. The “idyl” (‘‘idyll’’) is a 
“little picture,’ usually with a pastoral setting. 
Po Coeicy Examples are found in Milton’s L’ Allegro and 
Il Penseroso, and Burns’s The Cotter’s Saturday 
Night. Tennyson’s Idylls of the King are, of course, 


XXXVili INTRODUCTION. 


familiar to all. Didactic poetry, wherein the aim is to 
teach a lesson or to draw a moral, is also frequently narra- 
tive in form. A well-known illustration is Goldsmith’s 
Deserted Village. 

Narrative poetry possesses features of peculiar interest 
and comprises a literary division of wide extent and great 
importance. The three poems which have been included 
in this book afford sound examples of its general forms 
and tendencies. A careful study of these poems will 
direct the mind towards a keener appreciation of all good 
poetry. 


SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


‘g01Yy} Jo ou Yyoddo}4s OFF 


THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT 


IN SEVEN PARTS. 


Argument. 


MARINER. 


How a ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold 
Country towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course 
to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean ; and of the strange things 
that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his 


own Country. 


PART I 


Ir is an ancient Mariner, 
And he stoppeth one of three. 


“ By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, 


Now wherefore stopp’st thou me ? 


“The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide, 
And I am next of kin; 

The guests are met, the feast is set : 
May’st hear the merry din.” 


He holds him with his skinny hand, 
“There was a ship,” quoth he. 

“ Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon!” 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 


He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The Wedding-Guest stood still, 

And listens like a three years’ child: 
The Mariner hath his will. 


10 


15 


An ancient 
Mariner meet- 
eth three Gal- 
lants bidden to 
a wedding- 
feast and 
detaineth one. 


The Wedding- 
Guest is spell- 
bound by the 
eye of the old 
seafaring man, 
and con- 
strained to 
hear his tale. 


The Mariner 
tells how the 
ship sailed 
southward 
with a good 
wind and fair 
weather, till it 
reached the 
line. 


The Wedding- 
Guest heareth 
the bridal mu- 
sic; but the 
Mariner con- 
tinueth his 
tale. 


The ship 
driven by a 
storm toward 
the south pole. 


COLERIDGE. 


The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: 
He eannot choose but hear ; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 


“The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared, 


Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill, 
Below the lighthouse top. 


“The sun came up upon the left, 

Out of the sea came he! 

And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea. 


“ Higher and higher every day, 
Till over the mast at noon —” 
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, 
For he heard the loud bassoon. 


The bride had paced into the hall, 
Red as a rose is she; 

Nodding their heads before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 


The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 


‘ And now the Storm-blast came, and he 
Was tyrannous and strong: 

He struck with his o’ertaking wings, 
And chased us south along. 


20 


26 


30 


35 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


“ With sloping masts and dripping prow, 
As who pursued with yell and blow 

Still treads the shadow of his foe, 

And forward bends his head, 

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 
And southward aye we fled. 


« And now there came both mist and snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold: 

And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 

As green as emerald. 


“ And through the drifts the snowy clifts 
Did send a dismal sheen: 

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
The ice was all between. 


“The ice was here, the ice was there, 
The ice was all around: 


45 


55 


60 


It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, 


Like noises in a swound! 


“ At length did cross an Albatross, 
Thorough the fog it came ; 

As if it had been a Christian soul, 
We hailed it in God’s name. 


“Tt ate the food it ne’er had eat, 
And round and round it flew. 

The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
The helmsman steered us through! 


65 


70 


The land of 
ice, and of 
fearful sounds 
where no 
living thing 
was to be 
seen. 


Till a great 
seabird, called 
the Albatross, 
came through 
the snow-fog, 
and was 
received with 
great joy and 
hospitality. 


4 


And lo! the 
Albatross 

roved a 
bird of good 
omen, and 
followeth the 
ship as it 
returned 
northward 
through fog 
and floating 
ice. 


The ancient 
Mariner in- 
hospitably 
killeth the 
nious bird of 
jeood omen. 


His shipmates 


ery out against 


the ancient 
Mariner, for 
killing the 
bird of good 
lack. 


COLERIDGE. 


“ And a good south wind sprung up behind ; 
The Albatross did follow, 

And every day, for food or play, 

Came to the Mariners’ hollo! 

“In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 75 
It perched for vespers nine ; 

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 
Glimmered the white moon-shine.” 


‘God save thee, ancient Mariner! 

From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — 80 
Why look’st thou so? ” —“ With my cross-bow 
I shot the Albatross. 


HgeWardk Vib 


‘The Sun now rose upon the right ; 

Out of the sea came he, 

Still hid in mist, and on the left 85 
Went down into the sea. 


‘* And the good south wind still blew behind, 
But no sweet bird did follow, 
Nor any day for food or play 
Came to the mariners’ hollo! 


“And I had done a hellish thing, 

And it would work ’em woe: 

For all averred, I had killed the bird 

That made the breeze to blow. 

‘Ah wretch!’ said they, ‘the bird to slay, 95 
That made the breeze to blow!’ 


. BUTYY YsI]oy B sup py | puy,, 


Stet FSS 


“Tnstead of the cross, the Albatross 


About my neck was hung.” 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


‘Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head, 
The glorious Sun uprist: 

Then all averred, I had killed the bird 

That brought the fog and mist. 

“Twas right,’ said they, ‘such birds to slay, 
That bring the fog and mist.’ 


100 


(« The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 
_ The furrow followed free ; 


y 


} 


\ 


We were the first that ever burst 
Into that silent sea. 


105 


“ Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
’T was sad as sad could be; 
And we did speak only to break 


The silence of the sea! 110 


‘ “AN in a hot and copper sky, 

The bloody Sun, at noon, 

Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the Moon. 


“Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
As idle as a painted ship 


115 


\Upon a painted ocean. 


“ Water, water, everywhere, 


And all the boards did shrink ; 120 


Nor any drop to drink. 


ee water, everywhere 


5 


But when the 
fog cleared off, 
they justify 
the same, and 
thus make 
themselves 
accomplices 

in the crime, 


The fair breeze 
continues ; the 
ship enters the 
Pacific Ocean, 
and sails 
northward, 
even till it 
reaches the 
line. 


The ship hath 
been suddenly 
becalmed. 


And the Alba. 
tross begins ta 
be avenged. 


A spirit had 
followed them; 
one of the in- 
visible inhabit- 
ants of this 
planet, neither 
departed souls 
nor angels ; 
concerning 
whom the 
learned Jew, 
Josephus, and 
the Platonic 
Constantino- 
politan, 
Michael 
Psellus, may 
be consulted. 
They are very 
numerous, and 
there is no 
climate or ele- 
ment without 
one or more. 


The ship- 
mates, in their 
sore distress 
would fain 
throw the 
whole guilt on 
the ancient 
Mariner: in 
sign whereof 
they hang the 
dead sea-bird 
round his 
neck, 


‘The ancient 
Mariner be- 
holdeth a sign 
in the element 
afar off. 


COLERIDGE. 


‘The very deep did rot: O Christ! 
That ever this should be! 

Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 


“ About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night ; 
The water, like a witch’s oils, 
Burnt green, and blue, and white. 


‘¢ And some in dreams assuréd were 
Of the Spirit that plagued us so; 
Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 


“ And every tongue, through utter drought, 
Was withered at the root; 

We could not speak, no more than if 

We had been choked with soot. 


“ Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 


PACKS LLL 


‘There passed a weary time. Each throat 
Was parched, and glazed each eye. 

A weary time! a weary time! 

How glazed each weary eye, 

When, looking westward, I beheld 

A something in the sky. 


125 


130 


135 


140 


145 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 7 


‘ At first it seemed a little speck, 

And tken it seemed a mist; 150 
It moved and moved, and took at last 

A certain shape, I wist. 


“ A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! 

And still it neared and neared : 

As if it dodged a water-sprite, 15% 
It plunged and tacked and veered. 


“ With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, At its nearer 


’ approach, it 
We could nor laugh nor wail ; BeCuie ab ru) 
to be a ship ; 
Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! and at a dear 
, ransoin he 
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 160 freeth his 
s : ; speech from 
And cried, ‘ A sail! a sail !’ the bonds of 
thirst. 
“ With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
Agape they hear me cal]: 
Gramercy! they for joy did grin, A flash of joy. 
And all at once their breath drew in, 165 
As they were drinking all. 
“<See! see!’ (I cried) ‘she tacks no more! hd he 
: ows; for can it 
Hither to work us weal ; pes shia 
, ; f comes onward 
Without a breeze, without a tide, babreppake 


She steadies with upright keel !’ 170 


“The western wave was all a-flame, 

The day was well-nigh done! 

Almost upon the western wave 

Rested the broad bright Sun ; 

When that strange shape drove suddenly 175 
Betwixt us and the Sun, 


8 


It seemeth 
him but the 
skeleton of a 
ship. 


And its ribs 
are seen as 
bars on the 
face of the 
setting Sun. 
The Spectre- 
Woman and 
her death- 
mate, and no 
other on 
board the 
skeleton ship. 
Like vessel, 
like crew ! 


Death and 
Life-in-Death 
have diced 
for the ship’s 
crew, and she 
(the latter) 
winneth the 
ancient 
Mariner. 


No twilight 
within the 
courts of the 
Sun. 


COLERIDGE. 


“ And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven’s Mother send us grace !) 
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 


With broad and burning face. 180 


“¢ Alas!’ (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
‘ How fast she nears and nears ! 

Are those her sails that glance in the sun, 
Like restless gossameres ? 


««¢ Are those her ribs through which the sun 
Did peer, as through a grate ? 

And is that woman all her crew ? 

Is that a Death ? and are there two? 

Is Death that woman’s mate?’ 


185 


‘“‘ Her lips were red, her looks were free, 190 
Her locks were yellow as gold: 

Her skin was as white as leprosy, 

The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she, 


Who thicks man’s blood with cold. 


“The naked hulk alongside came, 19 
And the twain were casting dice ; 
‘The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!’ 


Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 


“The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out; 
At one stride comes the dark ; 

With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea, 

Off shot the svectre-bark. 


200 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


“ We listened and looked sideways up! 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 

My life-blood seemed to sip ! 205 
The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steersman’s face by his lamp gleamed white, 
From the sails the dew did drip — 

Till clomb above the eastern bar 

The hornéd Moon, with one bright star 210 
Within the nether tip. 


“One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 

Too quick for groan or sigh, 

Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 

And cursed me with his eye. 215 


“ Four times fifty living men, 

(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
They dropped down one by one. 


“The souls did from their bodies fly, — 220 
They fled to bliss or woe! 

And every soul, it passed me by, 

Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! ” 


Paw La LY, 


“CT fear thee, ancient Mariner ! 

I fear thy skinny hand! 225 
And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 

As is the ribbed sea-sand. 


“T fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
And thy skinny hand, so brown.” — 


At the rising 
of the Moon, 


one after an- 
other. 


his shipmates 
drop down 
dead. 


But Life-in- 

Death begins 
her work on 
the ancient - 
Mariner. 


The Wedding- 
Guest feareth 

that a spirit is 
talking to him ; 
but the ancient 


10 


Mariner as- 
sureth him of 
his bodily life, 
and pro- 
ceedeth to 
relate his 
horrible pen- 
ance. 


He despiseth 
the creatures 
of the calm, 


and envieth 
that they 
should live, 
and so many 
lie dead. 


But the curse 
liveth for him 
in the eye of 
the dead men. 


COLERIDGE. 


“Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
This body dropt not down. 


“‘ Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide, wide sea ! 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 


“The many men, so beautiful! 
And they all dead did lie: 
And a thousand slimy things 
Lived on; and so did I. 


‘‘T looked upon the rotting sea, 
And drew my eyes away ; 

I looked upon the rotting deck, 
And there the dead men lay. 


“ T looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
But or ever a prayer had gusht, 

A wicked whisper came, and made 

My heart as dry as dust. 


“T closed my lids, and kept them close, 
And the balls like pulses beat ; 


235 


245 


For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, 


Lay like a load on my weary eye, 
And the dead were at my feet. 


“The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
Nor rot nor reek did they : 

The look with which they looked on me 
Had never passed away. 


251 


255 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


«An orphan’s curse would drag to hell, 

A spirit from on high; 

But oh! more horrible than that 

Is a curse in a dead man’s eye! 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 
And yet I could not die. 


“The moving Moon went up the sky, 
And nowhere did abide: 

Softly she was going up, 

And a star or two beside — 


“Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 
Like April hoar-frost spread ; 

But where the ship’s huge shadow lay, 
The charmed water burnt alway 

A still and awful red. 


‘‘ Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

I watched the water-snakes : 

They moved in tracks of shining white, 
And when they reared, the elfish light 
Fell off in hoary flakes. 


“ Within the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich attire : 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
They coiled and swam ; and every track 
Was a flash of golden fire. 


* Q happy living things! no tongue 
Their beauty might declare : 


260 


265 


270 


275 


280 


uu 


In his loneli- 
ness and fixed- 
ness he 
yearneth to- 
wards the 
journeying 
Moon, and the 
stars that 

still sojourn, 
yet still move 
onward ; and 
every where 
the blue sky 
belongs to 
them, and is 
their ap- 
pointed rest, 
and their 
native country 
and their own 
natural homes, 
which they en- 
ter unan- 
nounced, as 
lords that are 
certainly ex- 
pected and yet 
there is a silent 
joy at their ar- 
rival, 


By the light of 
the Moon he 
beholdeth 
God’s 
creatures of 
the great calm. 


Their beauty 
and their 
_ happiness. 


12 COLERIDGE. 


He blesseth = A spring of love gushed from my heart, 

em in his 

heart. And I blessed them unaware : 285 
Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 


And I blessed them unaware. 


The spellbe’ «The selfsame moment I could pray ; 
gins to break. ‘ 
And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 290 
Like lead into the sea. 


BART Ve 


“Oh sleep! it isa gentle thing, 

Beloved from pole to pole! 

To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 

She sent the gentle sleep from heaven, 295 
That slid into my soul. 


Bygraceofthe “ The silly buckets on the deck, 
holy Mother, 


theancient That had so long remained, 
Mariner is re- 


freshed with I dreamt that they were filled with dew 
2k And when I awoke, it rained. 300 


“My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank ; 

Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 

And still my body drank. 


‘“‘T moved, and could not feel my limbs: 305 
I was so light— almost 

I thought that I had died in sleep, 

And was a blesséd ghost. 


SPEDE 
ES seg 
i { nt 


i 
ite 


“The Albatross fell off, and sank 


Like lead into the sea.” | 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


* And soon I heard a roaring wind : 
It did not come anear ; 

But with its sound it shook the sails, 
That were so thin and sere. 


310 


“The upper air burst into life! 
And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 
To and fro they were hurried about ! 
And to and fro, and in and out, 
The wan stars danced between. 


315 


« And the coming wind did roar more loud, 

And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 

And the rain poured down from one black cloud ; 
The Moon was at its edge. 321 


“The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
The Moon was at its side: 

Like waters shot from some high crag, 
The lightning fell with never a jag, 

A river steep and wide. 


“The loud wind never reached the ship, 
Yet now the ship moved on! 

Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
The dead men gave a groan. 330 
“ They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 

It had been strange, even in a dream, 

To have seen those dead men rise. 


‘The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; 335 
Yet never a breeze up blew ; 


13 


He heareth 
sounds and 
seeth strange 
sights and 
commotions 
in the sky and 
the element. 


The bodies of 
the ship’s crew 
are inspirited. 
and the ship 
moves On ; 


14 COLERIDGE. 


The mariners all ’gan work the ropes, 

Where they were wont to do; 

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — 

We were a ghastly crew. 340 


“The body of my brother’s son 
Stood by me, knee to knee: 

The body and I pulled at one rope 
But he said nought to me. — ” 


but not by the “] fear thee, ancient Mariner !” 345 
souls of the 


men,norby ‘ Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! 


dzemons of 


earthor middle "T'was not those souls that fled in pain, 
air, but by a 


blessed troop Which to their corses came again, 
of angelic 


spirits, sent But a troop of spirits blest: 
down by the 
invocation 

of the guardian 
ore “ For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, 
And clustered round the mast; 351 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, 


And from their bodies passed. 


“ Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 

~ Then darted to the Sun ; 355 
Slowly the sounds came back again, 
Now mixed, now one by one. 


“ Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 

I heard the sky-lark sing ; 

Sometimes all the little birds that are, 360: 
How they seemed to fill the sea and air 

With their sweet jargoning ! 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


«“ And now ’twas like all instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute ; 

And now it is an angel’s song, 

That makes the heavens be mute. 


“Tt ceased; yet still the sails made on 
A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune. 


“ Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
Yet never a breeze did breathe: 
Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 


‘‘ Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
From the land of mist and snow, 
The spirit slid; and it was he 

That made the ship to go. 

The sails at noon left off their tune, 
And the ship stood still also. 


‘The Sun, right up above the mast, 

Had fixed her to the ocean ; 

But in a minute she ’gan stir, 

With a short uneasy motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her length, 
With a short uneasy motion. 


“ Then, like a pawing horse let go, 
Sbe made a sudden bound : 


365 


370 


375 


380 


385 


390 


The lonesome 
Spirit from the 
south pole car- 
ries on the ship 
as far as the, 
line, in obedi- 
ence to the 
angelic troop, 
but still re- 
quireth ven- 
geance. 


16 


The Polar 


Spirit’s fellow- 


dzmons, the 
invisible in- 
habitants of 
the element, 
take part in 
his wrong; and 
two of them 
relatc, one to 
the other, that 
penance long 
and heavy 

for the ancient 
Mariner hath 
been accorded 
to the Polar 
Spirit, who 
returneth 
southward. 


COLERIDGE. 


It flung the blood into my head, 
And I fell down in a swound. 


‘“ How long in that same fit I lay, 
I have not to declare ; 

But ere my living life returned, 

I heard, and in my soul discerned, 
Two voices in the air. 


“<¢Ts it he?’ quoth one, ‘Is this the man? 


By Him who died on cross, 
With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless Albatross. 


‘“¢ The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow, 

He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow.’ 


“The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew : 

Quoth he, ‘The man hath penance done, 
And penance more will do.’ 


PAR Dav. 
First Voice. 


“< But tell me, tell me! speak again, 
Thy soft response renewing — 

What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
What is the ocean doing ?’ 


395 


400 


405 


410 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


Second Voice. 


“¢Still as a slave before his lord, 
The ocean hath no blast ; 

His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the Moon is cast — 


“<¢Tf he may know which way to go; 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see! how graciously 
She looketh down on him.’ 


First Voice. 


“¢ But why drives on that ship so fast, 
Without or wave or wind?’ 


Second Voice. 


‘The air is cut away before, 
And closes from behind. 


“ «Fly, brother, fly! more higb, more high! 
Or we shall be belated : 

For slow and slow that ship will go, 

When the Mariner’s trance is abated.’ 


“T woke, and we were sailing on 

As in a gentle weather: 

’T was night, calm night, the Moon was high; 
The dead men stood together. 


* All stood together on the deck, 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter : 
All fixed on me their stony eyes, 
That in the Moon did glitter. 


415 


425 


430 


17 


The Mariner 
hath been cast 
into a trance ; 
for the angelic 
power causeth 
the vessel to 
drive north- 
ward faster 
than human 
life could 
endure. 


The super- 
natural motion 
is retarded ; 
the Mariner 
awakes, and 
his penance 
begins anew. 


18 


The curse is 
finally ex- 
piated. 


COLERIDGE. 


“The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
Had never passed away : 

I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 

Nor turn them up to pray. 


‘ And now this spell was snapt: once more 
I viewed the ocean green, 

And looked far forth, yet little saw 

Of what had else been seen — 


‘“ Like one, that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread, 

And having once turned round walks on, 
And turns no more his head ; 

Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 


“ But soon there breathed a wind on me 
Nor sound nor motion made: 

Its path was not upon the sea, 

In ripple or in shade. 


‘‘TIt raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 

It mingled strangely with my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 


“Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 
Yet she sailed softly too: 

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
On me alone it blew. 


440 


445 


450 


455 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


“Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed 
The lighthouse top I see ? 

Is this the hill? is this the kirk ? 
Is this mine own countree ? 


“ We drifted o’er the harbor-bar, 
And I with sobs did pray — 

‘O let me be awake, my God! 
Or let me sleep alway.’ 


“ The harbor-bay was clear as glass, 
So smoothly it was strewn ! 

And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
And the shadow of the Moon. 


“The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
That stands above the rock: 

The moonlight steeped in silentness 

The steady weathercock. 


“And the bay was white with silent light, 
Till, rising from the same, 

Full many shapes, that shadows were, 

In crimson colors came. 


“A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were : 

I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
Oh Christ! what saw I there! 


“Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
And, by the holy rood! 

A man all light, a seraph-man, 

On every corse there stood. 


465 


470 


475 


480 


485 


490 


19 


And the an- 
cient Mariner 
beholdeth his 
native 
country. 


The angelic 
spirits leave 
the dead 
bodies, 


and appear in 
their own 
forms of light. 


20 


The Hermit of 
the wood 


COLERIDGE. 


“ This seraph-band, each waved his hand ; 
It was a heavenly sight! 

They stood as signals to the land, 

Each one a lovely light ; 


‘This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 


No voice did they impart — 
No voice; but oh! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 


‘“ But soon I heard the dash of oars ; 
I heard the Pilot’s cheer ; 
My head was turned perforce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 


“The Pilot and the Pilot’s boy, 

I heard them coming fast: 

Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 


“T saw a third —I heard his voice: 
It is the Hermit good ! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 
That he makes in the wood. 

He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away 
The Albatross’s blood. 


PART VII. 


“This Hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea. 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
He loves to talk with marineres 

That come from a far countree. 


495 


500 


505 


510 


515 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


“ He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 
He hath a cushion plump : 

It is the moss that wholly hides 

The rotted old oak-stump. 


“ The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk 
‘Why, this is strange, I trow! 

Where are those lights so many and fair, 
That signal made but now ?’ 


“<Strange, by my faith!’ the Hermit said — 
‘And they answered not our cheer! 

The planks look warped! and see those sails, 
How thin they are and sere! 

I never saw aught like to them, 

Unless perchance it were 


“ ¢ Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest-brook along ; 

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
That eats the she-wolf’s young.’ 


“<Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look —’ 
(The Pilot made reply) 

‘I am a-feared ’— ‘ Push on, push on !’ 
Said the Hermit cheerily. 


“ The boat came closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirred ; 

The boat came close beneath the ship, 
And straight a sound was heard. 


520 


525 


530 


535 


545 


21 


approacheth 
the ship with 
wonder. 


22 


The ship sud- 
denly sinketh. 


The ancient 
Mariner is 

saved in the 
Pilot’s boat. 


COLERIDGE. 


“ Under the water it rumbled on, 
Still louder and more dread : 

It reached the ship, it split the bay ; 
The ship went down lke lead. 


“Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 550 
Which sky and ocean smote, 

Like one that hath been seven days drowned 
My body lay afloat; 

But, swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the Pilot’s boat. 555 


“ Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
The boat spun round and round ; 

And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 


“TI moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 56U 
And fell down in a fit; 

The holy Hermit raised his eyes, 

And prayed where he did sit. 


‘‘T took the oars: the Pilot’s boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 565 
Laughed loud and long, and all the while 

His eyes went to and fro. 

‘Ha! ha!’ quoth he, ‘full plain I see, 

The Devil knows how to row.’ 


“ And now, all in my own countree, 570 
I stood on the firm land! 

The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, 

And scarcely he could stand 


‘Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look —’’ 


2 


% 


» 


aes 
NS LZ, 


‘“‘O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!” 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


*“Q shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man !’ 
The Hermit crossed his brow. 

‘Say quick,’ quoth he, ‘I bid thee say — 
What manner of man art thou?’ 


575 


‘ Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 


With a woful agony, 
Which forced me to begin my tale; 
And then it left me free. 


‘‘ Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
That agony returns ; 

And till my ghastly tale is told, 
This heart within me burns. 


*“T pass, like night, from land to land; 
I have strange power of speech ; 

That moment that his face I see, 

I know the man that must hear me: 
To him my tale I teach. 


“¢ What loud uproar bursts from that door! 
The wedding-guests are there: 

But in the garden-bower the bride 

And bride-maids singing are: 

And hark the little vesper bell, 

Which biddeth me to prayer! 


“OQ Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide, wide sea: 
So lonely ’twas, that God himself 
Scarce seeméd there to be. 


580 


585 


590 


595 


23 


The ancient 
Mariner ear- 
nestly entreat- 
eth the Hermit 
to shrieve 

him ; and the 
penance of life 
falls on him. 


And ever and 
anon through. 
out his future 
life an agony 
constraineth 
him to travel 
from land to 
land, 


24 


and to teach, 


by his own ex- 


ample, love 
and reverence 
to all things 
that God 
made and 
loveth. 


COLERIDGE. 


“OQ sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
’Tis sweeter far to me, 

To walk together to the kirk 

With a goodly company ! — 


“‘To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray, 

While each to his great Father bends, 
Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 
‘And youths and maidens gay ! 


“ Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! 

He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 


“ He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 
For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all.” 


The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar, 

Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest 
Turned from the bridegroom’s door. 


He went like one that hath been stunned, 
And is of sense forlorn : 

A sadder and a wiser man 

He rose the morrow morn. 


605 


610 


615 


620 


625 


MATTHEW ARNOLD 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 


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SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 
AN EPISODE. 


++ Oo 


Anp the first gray of morning filled the east, 
And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream. 
But all the Tartar camp along the stream 
Was hushed, and still the men were plunged in sleep. 
Sohrab alone, he slept not; all night long 5 
He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed: 
But when the gray dawn stole into his tent, 
He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword, 
And took his horseman’s cloak, and left his tent, 
And went abroad into the cold wet fog, 10 
Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa’s tent. 

Through the black Tartar tents he passed, which stood 
Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand 
Of Oxus, where the summer-floods o’erflow 
When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere ; 15 
Through the black tents he passed, o’er that low strand, 
And to a hillock came, a little back 
From the stream’s brink, — the spot where first a boat, 
Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land. 
The men of former times had crowned the top 20 
With a clay fort; but that was fallen, and now 
The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa’s tent, 
A dome of laths, and o’er it felts were spread. 

27 


28 ARNOLD. 


And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood 
Upon the thick piled carpets in the tent, 

And found the old man sleeping on his bed 

Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms. 
And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step 


Was dulled; for he slept hght, an old man’s sleep ; 


And he rose quickly on one arm, and said, — 
“ Who art thou? for it is not yet clear dawn. 
Speak ! is there news, or any night alarm ? ” 
But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said, — 
“Thou know’st me, Peran-Wisa! it is I. 
The sun has not yet risen, and the foe 
Sleep: but I sleep not; all night long I lie 
Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. 
For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek 
Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son, 
In Samarcand, before the army marched ; 
And I will tell thee what my heart desires. 
Thou know’st if, since from Ader-baijan first 
I came among the Tartars, and bore arms, 
I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown, 
At my boy’s years, the courage of a man. 
This too thou know’st, that while I still bear on 


The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world, 


And beat the Persians back on every field, 
I seek one man, one man, and one alone, — 
Rustum, my father; who I hoped should greet, 


Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field, 


His not unworthy, not inglorious son. 

So I long hoped, but him I never find. 

Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. 
Let the two armies rest to-day; but I 

W! challenge forth the bravest Persian lords 


25 


30 


35 


40 


5e 


55 


“T came among the Tartars and bore arm 
TARTAR CHIEFTAINS. 


Hoey 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 


To meet me, man to man: if I prevail, 
Rustum will surely hear it ; if I fall — 
Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. 
Dim is the rumor of a common fight 
Where host meets host, and many names are sunk ; 
But of a single combat fame speaks clear.” 
He spoke; and Peran-Wisa took the hand 
Of the young man in his, and sighed, and said, — 
“OQ Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine ! 
Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs, 
And share the battle’s common chance with us 
Who love thee, but must press forever first, 
In single fight incurring single risk, 
To find a father thou hast never seen ? 
That were far best, my son, to stay with us 
Unmurmuring ; in our tents, while it is war, 
And when ‘tis truce, then in Afrasiab’s towns. 
But if this one desire indeed rules all, . 


To seek out Rustum — seek him not through fight! 


Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, 

O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son ! 

But far hence seek him, for he is not here. 
Yor now it is not as when I was young, 
When Rustum was in front of every fray : 
But now he keeps-apart, and sits at home, 

In Seistan, with Zal, his father old ; 

Whether that his own mighty strength at last 
Feels the abhorred approaches of old age ; 

Or in some quarrel with the Persian king. 


There go! — Thou wilt not? Yet my heart forebodes 


Danger or death awaits thee on this field. 
Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost 
To us; fain therefore send thee hence in peace 


29 


65 


70 


75 


80 


30 ARNOLD. 


To seek thy father, not seek single fights 90 
In vain. But who can keep the lion’s cub 
From ravening, and who govern Rustum’s son ? 
Go: I will grant thee what thy heart desires.” 

So said he, and dropped Sohrab’s hand, and left 
His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay ; 95 
And o’er his chilly limbs his woollen coat 
He passed, and tied his sandals on his feet, 
And threw a white cloak round him, and he took 
In his right hand a ruler’s staff, no sword ; 
And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap, 100 
Black, glossy, curled, the fleece of Kara-Kul ; 
And raised the curtain of his tent, and called 
His herald to his side, and went abroad. 

The sun by this had risen, and cleared the fog 
“From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands. 105 
And from their tents the Tartar horseman filed 
Into the open plain: so Haman bade, — 
Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled 
The host, and still was in his lusty prime. 
From their black tents, long files of horse, they streamed ; 
As when some gray November morn the files, 111 
In marching order spread, of long-necked cranes 
Stream over Casbin and the southern slopes 
Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries, 
Or some frore Caspian reed-bed, southward bound 115 
For the warm Persian seaboard, — so they streamed. 
The Tartars of the Oxus, the king’s guard, 
First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long spears ; 
Large men, large steeds, who from Bokhara came 
And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. 120 
Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns of the south, 
The Tukas, and the lances of Salore, 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 31 


And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands ; 
Light men on light steeds, who only drink 
The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. 125 
And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came 
From far, and a more doubtful service owned, — 
The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks 
Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards 
And close-set skull-caps ; and those wilder hordes 130 
Who roam o’er Kipchak and the northern waste, 
Kalmucks and unkempt Kuzzaks, tribes who stray 
Nearest the pole, and wandering Kirghizzes, 
Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere, — 
These all filed out from camp into the plain. 135 
And on the other side the Persians formed, — 
First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seemed, 
The Llyats of Khorassan; and behind, 
The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot, 
Marshalled battalions bright in burnished steel. 140 
But Peran-Wisa with his herald came, 
Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front, 
And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks. 
And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw 
That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back, 145 
He took his spear, and to the front he came, 
And checked his ranks, and fixed them where they stood. 
And the old Tartar came upon the sand 
Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said, — 

“ Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear! 150 
Let there be truce between the hosts to-day. 
But choose a champion from the Persian lords 
To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man.” 

As in the country, on a morn in June, 
When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, 155 


5 Wi ARNOLD. 


A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy, — 

So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, 

A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran 

Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved. 
But as a troop of pedlars from Cabool 

Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, 

That vast sky-neighboring mountain of milk snow; 

Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they pass 

Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow, 

Choked by the air, and scarce can they themselves 

Slake their parched throats with sugared mulberries ; 

In single file they move, and stop their breath, 


For fear they should dislodge the o’erhanging snows, — 


So the pale Persians held their breath with fear. 
And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up 

To counsel; Gudurz and Zoarrah came, 

And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host 

Second, and was the uncle of the king; 

These came and counselled, and then Gudurz said, — 
* Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up, 

Yet champion have we none to match this youth. 

He has the wild stag’s foot, the lion’s heart. 

But Rustum came last night; aloof he sits 

And sullen, and has pitched his tents apart. 

Him will I seek, and carry to his ear 

The Tartar challenge, and this young man’s name; 

Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. 

Stand forth the while, and take their challenge up.” 
So spake he; and Ferood stood forth and cried, — 

“Qld man, be it agreed as thou hast said! 

Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man.” 
He spake ; and Peran-Wisa turned, and strode 

Back through the opening squadrons to his tent. 


160 


165 


170 


175 


180 


185 


‘SUANOOTVY NVWOOUDT, 


*qSIIM SIY UO WOD|R} B PlIFT 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 


But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran, 

And crossed the camp which lay behind, and reached, 

Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum’s tents. 

Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay, 

Just pitched ; the high pavilion in the midst 

Was Rustum’s, and his men lay camped around. 

And Gudurz entered Rustum’s tent, and found 

Rustum; his morning meal was done, but still 

The table stood before him, charged with food, — 

A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread, 

And dark-green melons ; and there Rustum sate 

Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist, 

And played with it; but Gudurz came and stood 

Before him; and he looked, and saw him stand, 

And with a cry sprang up, and dropped the bird, 

And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said, — 
“Welcome! these eyes could see no better sight. 

What news? but sit down first, and eat and drink.” 
But Gudurz stood in the tent-door, and said, — 

“Not now. A time will come to eat and drink, 

Dut not to-day: to-day has other needs. 

The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze; 

For, from the Tartars is a challenge brought 

To pick a champion from the Persian lords 


To fight their champion —and thou know’st his name: 


Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. 
Q Rustum, like thy might is this young man’s ! 
He has the wild stag’s foot, the lion’s heart ; 
And he is young, and Iran’s chiefs are old, 
Or else too weak ; and all eyes turn to thee. 
Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose!” 
He spoke; but Rustum answered with a smile, — 
“Go to! if Iran’s chiefs are old, then I 


33 


190 


195 


200 


205 


210 


220 


54. ARNOLD. 


Am older. If the young are weak, the king 

Errs strangely ; for the king, for Kai Khosroo, 
Himself is young, and honors younger men, 

And lets the aged moulder to their graves. 
Rustum he loves no more, but loves the young: 
The young may rise at Sohrab’s vaunts, not I. 
For what care I, though all speak Sohrab’s fame ? 
For would that I myself had such a son, 

And not that one slight helpless girl I have! 

A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, 

And I to tarry with the snow-haired Zal, 

My father, whom the robber Afghans vex, 

And clip his borders short, and drive his herds, 
And he has none to guard his weak old age. 
There would I go, and hang my armor up, 

And with my great name fence that weak old man, 
And spend the goodly treasures I have got, 

And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab’s fame, 

And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings, | 


225 


235 


240 


And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no more.” 


He spoke, and smiled ; and Gudurz made reply, — 


“ What then, O Rustum, will men say to this, 
When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks 
Thee most of all, and thou, whom he most seeks, 


Hidest thy face? Take heed lest men should say, — 


Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his fame, 

And shuns to peril it with younger men.” 

And, greatly moved, then Rustum made reply, — 
“OQ Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words ? 
Thou knowest better words than this to say. 
What is one more, one less, obscure or famed, 
Valiant or craven, young or old, to me ? 

Are not they mortal? am not I myself? 


245 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 


But who for men of naught would do great deeds ? 
Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his fame ! 
But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms: 

Let not men say of Rustum, he was matched 

In single fight with any mortal man.” 


He spoke, and frowned ; and Gudurz turned, and ran 


Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy, — 
Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came. 
But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and called 
His followers in, and bade them bring his arms, 
And clad himself in steel. The arms he chose 
Were plain, and on his shield was no device ; 
Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold, 

And, from the fluted spine a-top, a plume 

Of horse-hair waved, a scarlet horse-hair plume. 
So armed, he issued forth ; and Ruksh, his horse, 
«Followed him like a faithful hound at heel, — 


Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all the earth, 


The horse whom Rustum on a foray once 

Did in Bokhara by the river find 

A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home, 

And reared him ; a bright bay, with lofty crest, 
Dight with a saddle-cloth of broidered green 
Crusted with gold, and on the ground were worked 
All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know. 
So followed, Rustum left his tents, and crossed 
The camp, and to the Persian host appeared. 

And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts 
Hailed; but the Tartars knew not who he was. 
And dear as the wet diver to the eyes 

Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore, 
By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf, 

Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night, 


35 


255 


260 


265 


275 


280 


285 


x 
36 : ARNOLD. 


Having made up his tale of precious pearls 
Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands, — 
So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came. 

And Rustum to the Persian front advanced ; 
And Sohrab armed in Haman’s tent, and came. 
And as a-field the reapers cut_a swath 
Down through the middle of a rich’man’s corn, 
And on each side are squares of standing corn, 
And in the midst a stubble short and bare, — 

So on each side were squares of men, with spears 
Bristling, and in the midst the open sand. 

And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast 

His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw 
Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came. 

As some rich woman, on a winter’s morn, 

Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge 
Who with numb blackened fingers makes her fire, — 
At cock-crow, on a starlit winter’s morn, 

When the frost flowers the whitened window-panes, — 
And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts 

Of that poor drudge may be; so Rustum eyed 

The unknown adventurous youth, who from afar 
Came seeking Kustum, and defying forth 

All the most valiant chiefs ; long he perused 

His spirited air, and wondered who he was. 

For very young he seemed, tenderly reared ; 

Like some young cypress, tall and dark and straight, 
Which in a queen’s secluded garden throws 

Its slight dark shadow on a moonlit turf, 

By midnight, to a bubbling fountain’s sound, — 

So slender Sohrab seemed, so softly reared. 

And a deep pity entered Rustum’s soul 

As he beheld him coming ; and he stood, 


300 


305 


310 


315 


320 


Fd 


, SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 


~ 

And beckoned to him with his hand; and said, — 
«© thou young man, the air of heaven is soft, 

And warm, and pleasant ; but the grave is cold! 

Geaven’s air is better than the cold dead grave. 

Behold me! Jam vast, and clad in iron, © 

And tried; and I have stood on many a field 

Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe: 

Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. 

O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death ? 

Be governed: quit the Tartar host, and come 

To Iran, and be as my son to me, 

And fight beneath my banner till I die! 

There are no youths in Iran brave as thou.” 
So he spake, mildly. Sohrab heard his voice, 

The mighty voice of Rustum, and he saw 

His giant figure planted on the sand, 

Sole, ike some single tower, which a chief 

Hath builded on the waste in former years 

Against the robbers ; and he saw that head, 

Streaked with its first gray hairs; hope filled his soul, 

And he ran forward, and embraced his knees, 

And clasped his hand within his own, and said, — 
“ Oh, by thy father’s head! by thine own soul! 

Art thou not Rustum? Speak! art thou not he? ” 
But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth, 

And turned away, and spake to his own soul, — 
“Ah me! I muse what this young fox may mean! 

False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. 

For if I now confess this thing he asks, 

And hide it not, but say, Rustum is here | 

He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes ; 

But he will find some pretext not to fight, 

And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts, 


37 


"325 


330 


335 


340 


345 


350 


38 ARNOLD. 


A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. 
And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab’s hall 
In Samarcand, he will arise and cry, — 
‘T challenged once, when the two armies camped 
Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords 3 
To cope with me in single fight; but they 
Shrank, only Rustum dared; then he and I 
Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away.’ 
So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud ; 
Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me.” 
And then he turned, and sternly spake aloud, — 
“ Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus 
Of Rustum? Iam here, whom thou hast called 
By challenge forth ; make good thy vaunt, or yieid! 
Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight ? 
Rash boy, men look on Rustum’s face, and flee ! 
For well I know, that did great Rustum stand 
Before thy face this day, and were revealed, 
There would be then no talk of fighting more. 
But being what I am, I tell thee this, — 
Do thou record it in thine inmost soul: 
Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt, and yield, 
Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds 
Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer-floods, 
Oxus in summer wash them all away.” 
He spoke; and Sohrab answered, on his feet, — 
“ Art thou so fierce? Thou wilt not. fright me so! 
I am no girl, to be made pale by words. 
Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum stand 
Here on this field, there were no fighting then. 
But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here. 
Begin ! thou art more vast, more dread than I; 
And thou art proved, I know, and I am young 


355 


360 


365 


370 


375 


380 


385 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 


But yet success sways with the breath of Heaven. 
And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure 
Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. 

For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, 

Poised on the top of a huge wave of fate, 

Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall ; 
And whether it will heave us up to land, 

Or whether it will roll us out to sea, — 

Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death, — 
We know not, and no search will make us know: 
Only the event will teach us in its hour.” 

He spoke ; and Rustum answered not, but hurled 
His spear: down from the shoulder, down it came, 
As on some partridge in the corn a hawk, 

That long has towered in the airy clouds, 

Drops like a plummet; Sohrab saw it come, . 

And sprang aside, quick as a flash ; the spear 
Hissed, and went quivering down into the sand, 
Which it sent flying wide. Then Sohrab threw 

In turn, and full struck Rustum’s shield ; sharp rang 
The iron plates rang sharp, but turned the spear. 
And Rustum seized his club, which none but he 
Could wield ; an unlopped trunk it was, and huge, 
Still rough, — like those which men in treeless plains 
To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers, 
Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up 

By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time 

Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack, 

And strewn the channels with torn boughs, — so huge 
The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck 

One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside, 

Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came 
Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum’s hand. 


390 


395 


405 


410 


415 


40 ARNOLD. 


And Rustum followed his own blow, and fell 420 
To his knees, and with his fingers clutched the sand. 
And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword, 
And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay 
Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand ; 
But he looked on, and smiled, nor bared his sword, 425 
But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said, — 

“Thou strik’st too hard! that club of thine will float 
Upon the summer-floods, and not my bones. 
But rise, and be not wroth! not wroth am 1; 
No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. 430 
Thou say’st thou art not Rustum ; be it so! 
Who art thou, then, that canst so touch my soul? 
Boy as I am, I have seen battles too, — 
Have waded foremost in their bloody waves, 
And heard their hollow roar of dying men ; 435 
But never was my heart thus touched before. 
Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the heart? 
O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven! 
Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears, 
And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, 440 
And pledge each other in red wine, like friends, 
And thou shall talk to me of Rustum’s deeds. 
There are enough foes in the Persian host, 
Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang ; 
Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou 445 
May’st fight ; fight them, when they confront thy spear! 
But oh, let there be peace ’twixt thee and me! ” 

He ceased ; but while he spake, Rustum had risen, 
And stood erect, trembling with rage; his club 
He left to lie, but had regained his spear, 450 
Whose fiery point now in his mailed right hand 
Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn-star, 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 


The baleful sign of fevers ; dust had soiled 
His stately crest, and dimmed his glittering arms. 


His breast heaved, his lips foamed, and twice his voice 


4] 


455 


Was choked with rage; at last these words broke way : — 


“Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands ! 
Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words ! 
Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no more! 

Thou art not in Afrasiab’s garden now 

With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance; 
But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance 

Of battle, and with me, who make no play 

Of war: I fight it out, and hand to hand. 

Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine! 
Remember all thy valor ; try thy feints 

And cunning! all the pity I had is gone, 

Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts 
With thy lhght skipping tricks and thy girl’s wiles.” 

He spoke; and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, 

And he too drew his sword ; at once they rushed 
Together, as two eagles on one prey 

Come rushing down together from the clouds, 
One from the east, one from the west; their shields 
Dashed with a clang together, and a din 

Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters 

Make often in the forest’s heart at morn, 

Of hewing axes, crashing trees, — such blows 
Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed. 

And you would say that sun and stars took part 
In that unnatural conflict: for a cloud 

Grew suddenly in heaven, and darked the sun 
Over the fighters’ heads ; and a wind rose 

Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, 
And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. 


460 


465 


470 


475 


480 


42 ARNOLD. 


In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they alone; 
For both the on-looking hosts on either hand 

Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, 
And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. 

But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes 
And laboring breath. First Rustum struck the shield 
Which Sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked spear 
Rent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin, 
And Rustum plucked it back with angry groan. 
Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum’s helm, 
Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest 
He shore away, and that proud horse-hair plume, 
Never till now defiled, sank to the dust ; 

And Rustum bowed his head. But then the gloom 
Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air 

And lightenings rent the cloud ; and Ruksh the horse, 
Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry: 

No horse’s cry was that, most like the roar 

Of some pained desert-lion, who all day 

Has trailed the hunter’s javelin in his side, 

And comes at night to die upon the sand ; 

The two hosts heard that ery, and quaked for fear, 
And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream. 

But Sohrab heard, and quailed not, but rushed on, 
And struck again; and again Rustum bowed 

His head ; but this time all the blade, like glass, 
Sprang ina thousand shivers on the helm, 

And in the hand the hilt remained alone. 

Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes 
Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, 
And shouted, Rustum ! Sohrab heard that shout, 
And shrank amazed: back he recoiled one step, 


And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing form ; 


496 


495 


515 


; 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 


And then he stood bewildered, and he dropped 
His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. 


He reeled, and staggering back sank to the ground. 


And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, 
And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all 
The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair, — 
Saw Rustum standing safe upon his feet, 
And Sohrab wounded on the bloody sand. 

Then, with a bitter smile, Rustum began, — 


“Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill 


A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, 
And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab’s tent ; 

Or else that the great Rustum would come down 
Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move 
His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. _ > 
And then that all the Tartar host would praise 
Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, 
To glad thy father in his weak old age. 

Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man ! 
Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be ' 


_ Than to thy friends, and to thy father old.” 


And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab rephed, — 
“ Unknown thou art, yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. 
Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man! 
No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. 
For, were I matched with ten such men as thee, 
And I were that which till to-day I was, 


-They should be lying here, I standing there. 


But that belovéd name unnerved my arm, — 
That name, and something, I confess, in thee, 
Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield 
Fall; and thy spear transfixed an unarmed foe. 
And now thou boastest and insult’st my fate. 


525 


530 


535 


540 


545 


550 


44 ARNOLD. 


But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear: 
The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death! 
My father, whom I seek through all the world, 
He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!” 

As when some hunter in the spring hath found 
A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, 

Upon tho craggy isle of a hill-lake, 

And pierced her with an arrow as she rose, 

And followed her to find her where she fell 

Far off ; anon her mate comes winging back 
From hunting, and a great way off descries 

His huddling young left sole; at that, he checks 
His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps 
Circles above his eyry, with loud screams 
Chiding his mate back to her nest; but she 
Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, 

In some far stony gorge out of his ken, 

- A heap of fluttering feathers, — never more 
Shall the lake glass her, flying over it; 

Never the black and dripping precipices 

Echo her stormy scream as she sails by, — 

As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss, 
So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood 
Over his dying son, and knew him not. 

And with a cold, incredulous voice, he said, — 
“‘ What prate is this of fathers and revenge ? 
The mighty Rustum never had a son.” 

And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied, — 
‘Ah, yes, he had! and that lost son am I. 
Surely the news will one day reach his ear, — 
Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long, 


Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here ; 


And pierce him like a.stab, and make him leap 


555 


560 


565 


570 


575 


580 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 


And he desired to draw forth the steel, 

And let the blood flow free, and so to die. 
But first he would convince his stubborn foe ; 
And, rising sternly on one arm, he said, — 

‘¢Man, who art thou who dost deny my words ? 
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men ; 

And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. 
I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear 

That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, 
That she might prick it on the babe she bore.” 

He spoke; and all the blood left Rustum’s cheeks, 
And his knees tottered, and he smote his hand 
Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand, 

That the hard iron corslet clanked aloud ; 
And to his heart he pressed the other hand, 
And in a hollow voice he spake, and said, — 

“ Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie! 
If thou show this, then art thou Rustum’s son.” 

Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed 
His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, 
And showed a sign in faint vermilion points 
Pricked ; as a cunning workman, in Pekin, 

Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase, 
An emperor’s gift, — at early morn he paints, 
And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp 
Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands, — 
So delicately pricked the sign appeared 
On Sohrab’s arm, the sign of Rustum’s seal. 

It was that griffin which of old reared Zal, 
-Rustum’s great father, whom they left to die, 
A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks ; 


Him that kind creature found, and reared, and loved ; 


Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. 


47 


(o>) 
OK 
Or 


660 


665 


670 


“48: ARNOLD. 


And Sohrab bared that image on his arm, 
And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes, 
And then he touched it with his hand, and said, — 

‘“‘ How say’st thou? Is that sign the proper sign 
Of Rustum’s son, or of some other man’s ? ” 

He spoke ; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood 
Speechless ; and then he uttered one sharp cry, — 
O boy — thy father ! and his voice choked there. 
And a dark cloud passed before his eyes, 

And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. 
But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and cast 

His arms about his neck, and kissed his lips, 

And with fond faltering fingers stroked his cheeks, 
Trying to call him back to life; and life 

Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes, 

And they stood wide with horror; and he seized 
In both his hands the dust which lay around, 

And threw it on his head, and smirched his hair, — 
His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms ; 
And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast, 
And his sobs choked him; and he clutched his sword, 
To draw it, and forever let life out. 

But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands, 
And with a soothing voice he spake, and said, — 

“Father, forbear! for I but meet to-day 
The doom which at my birth was written down 
. In Heaven, and thou art Heaven’s unconscious hand. 
Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, 

When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too, 
I know it! But fate trod those promptings down 
Under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged 

The strife, and hurled me on my father’s spear. 
But let us speak no more of this. I find 


685 


690 


695 


700 


710 


715 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 


My father, let me feel that I have found ! 

Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take 

My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, 
And wash them with thy tears, and say, My son! 
Quick, quick! for numbered are my sands of life, 
And swift; for hke the hghtning to this field 

I came, and like the wind I go away, — 

Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind ; 

But it was writ in Heaven that this should be.” 

So said he; and his voice réleased the heart 
Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast 
His arms round his son’s neck, and wept aloud, 

And kissed him. And awe fell on both the hosts, 
When they saw Rustum’s grief; and Ruksh, the horse, 
With his head bowing to the ground, and mane 
Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe 

First to the one, then to the other, moved 

His head, as if inquiring what their grief 

Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, 
The big warm tears rolled down, and caked the sand. 
But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said, — 

“ Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feet 
Should then have rotted on their nimble joints, 
When first they bore thy master to this field! ” 

But Sohrab looked upon the horse, and said, — 
“Ts this, then, Ruksh? How often, in past days, 
My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed, 

My terrible father’s terrible horse! and said, 
That I should one day find thy lord and thee. 
Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane! 

O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I! 
For thou hast gone where I shall never go, 
And snuffed the breezes of my father’s home. 


49 - 


720 


725 


730 


745 


50 | ARNOLD. 


And thou has trod the sands of Seistan, 
And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake 
Of Zirrah; and the agéd Zal himself 
Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, 
Corn in a golden platter, soaked with wine, 
And said, O Ruksh ! bear Rustum well ! But I 
Have never known my grandsire’s furrowed face, 
Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, 
Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream, 
But lodged among my father’s foes, and seen 
Afrasiab’s cities only, Samarcand, 
Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, 
And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunk 
The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, 
Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, 
The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream, 
The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die.” 
Then, with a heavy groan, Rustum bewailed, —- 
“Oh that its waves were flowing over me! 
Oh that I saw its grains of yellow silt 
Roll tumbling in the current o’er my head! ” 
But, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied, — 
“ Desire not that, my father! thou must live. 
For some are born to do great deeds, and live 
As some are born to be obscured, and die. 
Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, 
And reap a second glory in thine age ; 
Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. 
But come! thou seest this great host of men 
Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these! 
Let me entreat for them: what have they done? 
They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star. 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 


750 


755 


760 


765 


770 


175 


780 


‘Heap a stately mound above my bones, 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all.” 


Toms oF TAMERLANE, SAMARCAND. 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 


But me thou must bear hence, not-send with-them 
»But carry me with thee to Seistan, 
And place me on a bed, and mourn for me, — 
Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all thy friends. 
And thou must lay me in that lovely earth, 
And heap a stately mound above my bones, 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all; 
That so the passing horseman on the waste 
May see my tomb a great way off, and cry, — 
Sohrab, the mighty Rustum’s son, lies there, 
Whom his great father did in ignorance kill ! 
And I be not forgotten in my grave.” 

And with a mournful voice, Rustum replied, — 
“ Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab my son, 
So shall it be; for I will burn my tents, 
And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me, 
And carry thee away to Seistan, 
And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, 
With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. 
And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, 
And heap a stately mound above thy bones, 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all, 
And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. 
And I will spare thy host; yea, let them go! 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace! 
What should I do with slaying any more ? 
For would that all whom I have ever slain 
Might be once more alive, — my bitterest foes, 
And they who were called champions in their time, 


And through whose death I won that fame I have, — 


And I were nothing but a common man, 
A poor, mean soldier, and without renown, 
So thou mightest live too, my son, my son! 


51 


785 


790 


795 


800 


805 


810 


815 


32 ARNOLD. 


Or rather would that I, even I myself, 
Might now be lying on this bloody sand, 
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine, 
Not thou of mine! and I might die, not thou ; 
And J, not thou, be borne to Seistan ; 820 
And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine ; 
And say, O son, I weep thee not too sore, 
For willingly, I know, thou met’st thine end! 
But now in blood and battles was my youth, 
And full of blood and battles is my age, 825 
And I shall never end this life of blood.” 
Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied, — 
“ A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man! 
But thou shalt yet have peace: only not now, 
Not yet! but thou shalt have it on that day, 830 
When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship, 
Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo, 
Returning home over the salt blue sea, 
From laying thy dear master in his grave.” 
And Rustum gazed in Sohrab’s face, and said, — 835 
“Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea! 
Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure.” 
He spoke; and Sohrab smiled on him, and took 
The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased 
His wound’s imperious anguish ; but the blood 840 
Came welling from the open gash, and life 
Flowed with the stream ; all down his cold white side 
The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soiled, 
Like the soiled tissue of white violets 
Left, freshly gathered, on their native bank, 845 
By children whom their nurses call with haste 
Indoors from the sun’s eye; his head drooped low, 
His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay, — 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 


While, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps, 
Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his frame, 
Convulsed him back to life, he opened them, 

And fixed them feebly on his father’s face ; 

Till now all strength was ebbed, and from his limbs 
Unwillingly the spirit fled away, 

Regretting the warm mansion which it left, 

And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world. 
~ So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead ; 

And the great Rustum drew his horseman’s cloak 
Down o’er his face, and sate by his dead son. 

As those black granite pillars, once high-reared 
By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear 

His house, now ’mid their broken flights of steps 
Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side, — 
So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. 

And night came down over the solemn waste, 
And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, 
And darkened all; and a cold fog, with night, 
Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, 
As of a great assembly loosed, and fires 
Began to twinkle through the fog; for now 
Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal ; 
The Persians took it on the open sands 
Southward, the Tartars by the river-marge ; 
And Rustum and his son were left alone. 

But the majestic river floated on, 
Out of the mist and hum of that low land, 
Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, 
Rejoicing, through the hushed Chorasmian waste, 
Under the solitary moon; he flowed 
Right for the Polar star, past Orgunjé, 
Brimming, and bright, and large; then sands begin 


53 


850 


855 


860 


865 


870° 


875 


880 


54. ARNOLD. 


To hem his watery march, and dam his streams, 

And split his currents ; that for many a league 

The shorn and parcelled Oxus strains along 

Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles, — 885 
Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had 

In his high mountain.cradle in Pamere, 

A foiled circuitous wanderer, — till at last 

The longed-for dash of waves is heard, and wide 

His luminous home of waters opens, bright 890 
And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars 
Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 


ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 


ENOCH ARDEN. 


Three children of three houses. 


ENOCH ARDEN. 


Lone lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm ; 

And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands ; 

Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 

In cluster; then a moulder’d church; and higher 

A long street climbs to one tall-tower’d mill ; 5 
And high in heaven behind it a gray down 

With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood, 

By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 

Gre. ‘> a cuplike hollow of the down. 


58 TENNYSON. 


A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff : 
In this the children play’d at keeping house. 
Enoch was the host one day, Philip the next, 25 
While Annie still was mistress; but at times 
Enoch would hold possession for a week : 
“This is my house and this is my little wife.” 
*¢ Mine too” said Philip “ turn and turn about : 
When, if they quarrell’d, Enoch stronger-made 30 
Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes ° 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, 
Shriek out “ I hate you, Enoch,” and at this 
The little wife would weep for company, 
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, 35 
And say she would be little wife to both. 


But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, 
And the new warmth of life’s ascending sun 
Was felt by either, either fixed his heart 


ENOCH ARDEN. 


From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas : 


And all men look’d upon him favorably : 

And ere he touch’d his one-and-twentieth May, 
He purchased his own boat, and made a home 
For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up 

The narrow street that clamber’d toward the mill. 


Then, on a golden autumn eventide, 

The younger people making holiday, 

With bag and sack and basket, great and small, 
Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay’d 

(His father lying sick and needing him) 

An hour behind; but as he cliimb’d the hill, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, 
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, 

His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, 

That burn’d as on an altar. Philip look’d, 

And in their eyes and faces read his doom ; 
Then, as their faces drew together, groan’d, 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 

Crept down into the hollows of the wood ; 
There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking, 
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 


So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, 
And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, 
Seven happy years of health and competence, 
And mutual love and honorable toil ; 

With children; first a daughter. In him woke, 
With his first babe’s first cry, the noble wish 


59 


55 


65 


70 


75 


80 


85 


60 TENNYSON. 


To save all earnings to the uttermost, 

And give his child a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or hers ; a wish renew’d, 
When two years after came a boy to be 

The rosy idol of her solitudes, 

While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, 
Or often journeying landward; for in truth 
Enoch’s white horse, and Enoch’s ocean-spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 
Rough-redden’d with a thousand winter gales, 
Not only to the market-cross were known, 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down, 

Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp, 

And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall, 
Whose Friday fare was Enoch’s ministering. 


Then came a change, as all things human change. 


Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 
Open’d a larger haven: thither used 

Enoch at times to go by land or sea ; 

And once when there, and clambering on a mast 
In harbor, by mischance he slipped and fell: 
A limb was broken when they lifted him ; 
And while he lay recovering there, his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one : 

Another hand crept too across his trade 
Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell, 
Altho’ a grave and staid God-fearing man, 

Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. 

He seem’d, as in a nightmare of the night, 

To see his children leading evermore 

Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, 

And her, he loved, a beggar: then he pray’d 


95 


100 


105 


110 


115 


ENOCH ARDEN. 


‘Save them from this, whatever comes to me.” 
And while he pray’d, the master of that ship 
Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 
Came, for he knew the man and valued hin, 
Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 

And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go? 
There yet were many weeks before she sail’d, 


Sail’d from this port. Would Enoch have the place ? 


And Enoch all at once assented to it, 
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 


So now that shadow of mischance appear’d 
No graver than as when some little cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 
And isles a hght in the offing: yet the wife — 
When he was gone — the children — what to do? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans; 
» To sell the boat — and yet he loved her well — 
How many a rough sea had he weather’d in her ! 
He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what she brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in trade 
With all that seamen needed or their wives — 
So might she keep the house while he was gone. 
Should he not trade himself out yonder? go 
This voyage more than once? yea twice or thrice 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
Become the master of a larger craft, 
With fuller profits lead an easier life, 
Have all his pretty young ones educated, 
And pass his days in peace among his own. 


Thus Enoch in his heart determined all : 
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, 


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62 TENNYSON. 


Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. 
Forward she started with a happy cry, 

And laid the feeble infant in his arms ; 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, 
Appraised his weight and fondled fatherlike, 
But had no heart to break his purposes 

To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 


Then first since Enoch’s golden ring had girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his will: 
Yet not with brawling opposition she, 

But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 

Many a sad kiss by day by night renew’d 
(Sure that all evil would come out of it) 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 

For her or his dear children, not to go. 

He not for his own self caring but her, 

Her and her children, let her plead in vain ; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro’. 


For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand 
To fit their little streetward sitting-room 
With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. 
So all day long till Enoch’s last at home, 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, 
Auger and saw, while Annie seem’d to hear 
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill’d and rang, 
Till this was ended, and his careful hand, — 
The space was narrow, — having order’d all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; and he, 
Who needs would work for Annie to the last, 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 


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Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 


ENOCH ARDEN. 


And Enoch faced this morning of farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie’s fears, 
Save, as his Annie’s, were a laughter to him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 
Bow’d himself down, and in that mystery 
Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, 
Pray’d for a blessing on his wife and babes 
Whatever came to him: and then he said 
«“ Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, 
For [ll be back, my girl, before you know it.” 
Then lightly rocking baby’s cradle “and he, 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — 
Nay — for I love him all the better for it — 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, 


And make him merry, when I come home again. 


Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go.” 


Him running on thus hopefully she heard, 
And almost hoped herself; but when he turn’d 
The current of his talk to graver things 
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 
On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 
Heard and not heard him; as the village girl, 
Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, 
Musing on him that used to fill it for her, 
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 


At length she spoke “O Enoch, you are wise. 


And yet for all your wisdom well know I 


That I shall look upon your face no more.” ‘ 


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64 TENNYSON. 


“ Well then,” said Enoch “TI shall look on yours. 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
(He named the day); get you a seaman’s glass, 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears.” 


But when the last of those last moments came, 
« Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, 
Look to the babes, and till I come again 
Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 
And fear no more for me; or if you fear 
Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds. 
Is He not yonder in those uttermost 
Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these 
Can I go from Him? and the sea is His, 
The sea is His: He made it.” 


Enoch rose, 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, 
And kiss’d his wonder-stricken little ones ; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness, 
When Annie would have raised him Enoch said 
“ Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the child 
Remember this ?” and kissed him in his cot. 
But Annie from her baby’s forehead clipt 
. A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept 
Thro’ all his future; but now hastily caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. 


She, when the day that Enoch mention’d, came, 
Borrow’d a glass, but all in vain: perhaps 
She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; 
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous ; 


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ENOCH ARDEN. 


She saw him not: and while he stood on deck 
Waving, the moment and the vessel past. 


Ey’n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 
She watch’d it and departed weeping for him; 
~ Then, tho’ she mourn’d his absence as his grave, 
Set her sad will no less to chime with his, 
But throve not in her trade, not being bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of hes, 
Nor asking overmuch and taking less, 
And still foreboding “ what would Enoch say ? ” 
For more than once, in days of difficulty 
And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 
Than what she gave in buying what she sold: 
She fail’d and sadden’d knowing it; and thus, 
xpectant of that news which never came, 
Gain’d for her own a scanty sustenance, 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 


Now the third child was sickly-born and grew 
Yet sicklier, tho’ the mother cared for it 
With all a mother’s care: nevertheless, 
Whether her business often call’d her from it, 
Or thro’ the want of what it needed most, 
Or means to pay the voice who best could tell 
What most it needed — howso’e’er it was, 
After a lingering, — ere she was aware, — 
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, 
_ The little innocent soul flitted away. 


In that same week when Annie buried it, 
Philip’s true heart, which hunger’d for her peace 


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66 TENNYSON. 


(Since Enoch left he had not look’d upon her), 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 
“Surely,” said Philip, “I may see her now, 
May be some little comfort ;” therefore went, 
Past thro’ the solitary room in front, 

Paused for a moment at an inner door, 

Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Enter’d; but Annie, seated with her grief, 
Fresh from the burial of her little one, 

Cared not to look on any human face, 

But turn’d her own toward the wall and wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falteringly 

“¢ Annie, I came to ask a favor of you.” 


He spoke; the passion in her moan’d reply 
‘Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
Aslam!” half abash’d him; yet unask’d, 
His bashfulness and tenderness at war, 

He set himself beside her, saying to her: 


“JT came to speak to you of what he wish’d, 
Enoch, your husband : I have ever said 
You chose the best among us —a strong man: 
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand 
To do the thing he will’d, and bore it thro’. 
And wherefore did he go this weary way, 
And leave you lonely ? not to see the world — 
For pleasure ? — nay, but for the wherewithal 
To give his babes a better bringing-up 


Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish. 


And if he come again, vext will he be 
To find the precious morning hours were lost. 
And it would vex him even in his grave, 


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ENOCH ARDEN. 


If he could know his babes were running wild 
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now — 
Have we not known each other all our lives ? 

I do beseech you by the love you bear 

Him and his children not to say me nay — 
For, if you will, when Enoch comes again 

Why then he shall repay me — if you will, 
Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 

Now let me put the boy and girl to school: 
This is the favor that I came to ask.” 


Then Annie with her brows against the wall 
Answer’d “TI cannot look you in the face ; 
I seem so foolish and so broken down. 
When you came in, my sorrow broke me down ; 
And. now I think your kindness breaks me down ; 
But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me: 
He will repay you: money can be repaid ; 
Not kindness such as yours.” 


And Philip ask’d 
“Then you will let me, Annie ?” 


There she turn’d, 
She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him, 
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, 
Then calling down a blessing on his head 
Caught at his hand, and rung it passionately, 
And past into the little garth beyond 
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 


Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, 
And bought them needful books, and every way, 


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68 TENNYSON. 


Like one who does his duty by his own, 
Made himself theirs ; and tho’ for Annie’s sake, 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 

He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, 
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent 
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, 
The late and early roses from his wall, 

Or conies from the down, and now and then, 
With some pretext of fineness in the meal 

To save offence of charitable, flour 

From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. 


But Philip did not fathom Annie’s mind: 
Scarce could the woman when he came upon her, 
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude 
Light on a broken word to thank him with. 
But Philip was her children’s all-in-all ; 

From distant corners of the street they ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily ; 

Lords of his house and of his mill were they ; 
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play’d with him 
And call’d him Father Philip. Philip gain’d 
As Enoch lost ; for Enoch seem’d to them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream, 

Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 

Down at the far end of an avenue, 

Going we know not where: and so ten years, 
Since Enoch left his hearth and native land, 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. 


It chanced one evening Annie’s children long’d 
To go with others nutting to the wood, 


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ENOCH ARDEN. 


And Annie would go with them; then they begg’d 
For Father Philip (as they call’d him) too: 
Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, 


Blanch’d with his m.ll, they found ; and saying to him 


“Come with us Father Philip ” he denied ; 

But when the children pluck’d at him to go, 
He laugh’d, and yielded readily to their wish, 
For was not Annie with them? and they went. 


But after scaling half the weary down, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her force 
Fail’d her; and sighing, “‘ Let me rest,” she said: 
So Philip rested with her well-content ; 
While all the younger ones with jubilant cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously 
Down thro’ the whitening hazels made a plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke 
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away 
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other 
And calling, here and there, about the wood. 


But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and remember’d one dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life 
He crept into the shadow: at last he said, 
Lifting his honest forehead, “ Listen, Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in the wood. 
Tired, Annie? ” for she did not speak a word. 


“Tired ? ” but her face had fall’n upon her hands: 


At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 
“The ship was lost, ” he said, “the ship was lost} 
No more of that! why should you kill yourself 


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70 TENNYSON. 


And make them orphans quite?” And Annie said 
“T thought not of it: but — I know not why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary.” 


Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 
* Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, 
And it has been upon my mind so long, 
That tho’ I know not when it first*came there, 
I know that it will out at last. O Annie, 
It is beyond all hope, against all chance, 
That he who left you ten long years ago 
Should still be living; well then — let me speak: 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help: 
J cannot help you as I wish to do 
Unless — they say that women are so quick — 
Perhaps you know what I would have you know — 
I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove 
A father to your children: I do think 
They love me as a father: I am sure 
That I love them as if they were mine own; 
And I believe, if you were fast my wife, 
That after all these sad uncertain years, 
We might be still as happy as God grants 
To any of his creatures. Think upon it: 
For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 
No burthen, save my care for you and yours: 
And we have known each other all our lives, 
-And I have loved you longer than you know.” 


Then answer’d Annie; tenderly she spoke: 
* You have been as God’s good angel in our house. 
God bless you for it, God reward you for it, 
Philip, with something happier than myself. 


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“T am content,” he answer’d, ‘‘ to be loved 
A little after Enoch.” 


ENOCH ARDEN. 


Can one love twice? can you be ever loved 
As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?” 
“JT am content,” he answer’d, “to be loved 

A little after Enoch.” “O,” she cried, 

Scared as it were, “dear Philip, wait a while: 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come — 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long: 

Surely I shall be wiser in a year: 

O wait a little!” Philip sadly said 

“ Annie, as I have waited all my life 

I well may wait a little.” “Nay,” she cried, 


“Tam bound: you have my promise — in a year: 


Will you not bide your year as I bide mine? ” 
And Philip answer’d “I will bide my year.” 


Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead ; 
Then fearing night and chill for Annie, rose 
And sent his voice beneath him thro’ the wood. 
Up came the children laden with their spoil ; 
Then all descended to the port, and there 
At Annie’s door he paused and gave his hand, 
Saying gently “ Annie, when I spoke to you, 
That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong, 
Tam always bound to you, but you are free.” 
Then Annie weeping ansver’d “ I am bound.” 


She spoke; and in one moment as it were, 
While yet she went about her household ways, 
Ev’n as she dwelt upon his latest words, 

That he had loved her longer than she knew, 
That autumn into autumn flash’d again. 


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72 TENNYSON. 


And there he stood once more before her face, 
Claiming her promise. “Is it a year?” she ask’d. 
“Yes, if the nuts,” he said, “ be ripe again: 

Come out and see.” But she — she put him off — 
So much to look to — such a change — a month — 
Give her a month — she knew that she was bound — 
A month —no more. Then Philip with his eyes 
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice 

- Shaking a little lke a drunkard’s hand, 

“Take your own time, Annie, take your own time.” 
And Annie could have wept for pity of him: 

And yet she held him on delayingly 

With many a scarce-believable excuse, 

Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, 

Till half-another year had slipt away. 


By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her; 
Some that she but held off to draw him on; 
And others laugh’d at her and Philip too, 
As simple folk that knew not their own minds, 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 
Would hint at worse in either. Her own son 
Was silent, tho’ he often look’d his wish ; 
But evermore the daughter prest upon her 
To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty ; 
And Philip’s rosy face contracting grew 
Careworn and wan; and all these things fell on her 
Sharp as reproach. 


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ENOCH ARDEN. 


At last one night it chanced 
\That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 
Pray’d for a sign “my Enoch, is he gone? ” 
‘Then compass’d round by the blind wall of night 
‘Brook’d not the expectant terror of her heart, 
‘Started from bed, and struck herself a light, 
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 


~ Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, 


Suddenly put her finger on the text, 

“ Under the palm-tree.” That was nothing to her: 
No meaning there: she closed the Book and slept: 
When lo! her Enoch sitting on a height, 


“Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun: 


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Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines 

The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms 
Whereof the happy people strowing cried 

‘Hosanna in the highest !’” Here she woke, 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him 

“ There is no reason why we should not wed.” 

“Then for God’s sake,” he answered, “ both our sakes, 
So you will wed me, let it be at once.” 


So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, 


- Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. 


But never merrily beat Annie’s heart. 

A footstep seem’d to fall beside her path, 

She knew not whence ; a whisper on her ear, 
She knew not what; nor loved she to be left © 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 

What ail’d her then, that ere she enter’d, often 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, 
Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew: 


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- “He is gone,” she thought, “he is happy, he is singing 


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74 TENNYSON. 


Such doubts and fears were common to her state, 

Being with child: but when her child was born, 

Then her new child was as herself renew’d, 

Then the new mother came about her heart, 520 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, 

And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 


And where was Enoch ? prosperously sail’d 
The ship “ Good Fortune,” tho’ at setting forth 
The Biscay, roughly riding eastward, shook 52h 
And almost overwhelm’d her, yet unvext 
She slipped across the summer of the world, 
Then after a long tumble about the Cape, 
And frequent interchange of foul and fair, 
She passing thro’ the summer world again, 530 
The breath of heaven came continually 
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, 
Till silent in her oriental haven. 


There Enoch traded for himself, and bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of those times, 535 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 


Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeed 
Thro’ many a fair sea-circle, day by day, < . | ne Vit fae 
Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head ) if 
Stared o’er the ripple feathering from her bows: 54C 


Then follow’d calms, and then winds variable, 

Then baffling, a long course of them; and last 

Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens 

Till hard upon the ery of “ breakers ” came 

The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 545 
But Enoch and two others. Half the night, 


ENOCH ARDEN. 


Buoy’d upon floating tackle and broken spars, 
These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn 
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 


No want was there of human sustenance, 
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots ; 
Nor save for pity was it hard to take 
The helpless life so wild that it was tame. 
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge 
They built, and thatch’d with leaves of palm, a hut, 
Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, 
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, 
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. 


For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy, 


Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, ** ys rs 


Lay lingering out a five-years’ death-in-life. “~ 


They could not leave him. After he was gone, 
The two remaining found a fallen stem ; 

And Enoch’s comrade, careless of himself, 
Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell 
Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. 

In those two deaths he read God’s warning “ wait.” 


The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns 
And winding glades high up hke ways to Heaven, 
The slender coco’s drooping crown of plumes, 
The lightning flash of insect and of bird, 

The luster of the long convolvuluses 

That coil’d around the stately stems, and ran 
Ey’n to the limit of the land, the glows 

' And glories of the broad belt of the world, 
All these he saw; but what he fain had seen 


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76 TENNYSON. 


He could not see, the kindly human face, 

Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 

The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fow], 

The league-long roller thundering on the reef, 
The moving whisper of huge trees that branch’d 
And blossom’d in the zenith, or the sweep 

Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, 

_ As down the shore he ranged, or all day long 
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 

A shipwreck’d sailor, waiting for a sail: 

No sail from day to day, but every day 

The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 

Among the palms and ferns and precipices ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the east ; 

The blaze upon his island overhead ; 

The blaze upon the waters to the west ; 

Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven, 
The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again 

The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no sail, 


There often as he watch’d or seem’d to watch, 
So still, the golden lizard on him paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms moved 
Before him haunting hin, or he himself 
Moved haunting people, things and places, known 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, 
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, 
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, 
And the low moan of leaden-color’d seas. 


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There often as he watch’d or seem’d to watch, 
So still, the golden lizard on him paused. 


She wanted water. 


ENOCH ARDEN. 


Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, 
Tho’ faintly, merrily — far and far away — 
He heard the pealing of his parish bells ; 
Then, tho’ he knew not wherefore, started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle 
Return’d upon him, had not his poor heart 
Spoken with That, which being everywhere 
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone, 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 


Thus over Enoch’s early-silvering head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went 
Year after year. His hopes to see his own, 
And pace the sacred old familiar fields, 
Not yet had perish’d, when his lonely doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds, 
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, 
Stay’d by this isle, not knowing where she lay: 
For since the mate had seen at early dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle 
The silent water slipping from the hills, 
They sent a crew that landing burst away 
In search of stream or fount, and fill’d the shores 
With clamor. Downward from his mountain-gorge 
Stept the long-hair’d, long-bearded solitary, 
Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad, 
Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it seem’d 
With inarticulate rage, and making signs 
They knew not what: and yet he led the way 
To where the rivulets of sweet water ran ; 
And ever as he mingled with the crew, 
And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue 


TT 


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78 TENNYSON. 


Was loosen’d, till he made them understand ; 


Whom, when their casks were fill’d, they took aboard, 


And there the tale he utter’d brokenly, 
Scarce-credited at first but more and more, 
Amazed and melted all \7ho listen’d to it - 
And clothes they gave him and free passage home; 
But oft he work’d among the rest and shook 
His isolation from him. None of these 

Came from his country, or could answer him, 
If question’d, aught of what he cared to know. 
And dull the voyage was with long delays, 
The vessel scarce sea-worthy ; but evermore — 
His fancy fled before the lazy wind 
Returning, till bencath a clouded moon 

He liko a lover down thro’ all his blood 

Drew in tho dewy meadowy morning-breath 
Of England, blown across her ghostly wall; 
And that same morning officers and men 
Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, 

Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it: 
Then moving up the coast they landed him, 
Ev’n in that harbor whence he sail’d before. 


There Enoch spoke no word to any one, 


But homeward — home — what home? had he a home? 


His home, he walk’d. Bright was that afternoon, | 
Sunny but chill; till drawn thro’ either chasm, 
Where either haven open’d on the deeps, 

‘Roll’d a sea-haze and whelm’d the world in gray ; 
Cut off the length of highway on before, 

And left but narrow breadth to left and right 

Of wither’d holt or tilth or pasturage. 

On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped 


645 


650 


550 


660 


665 


670 


ENOCH ARDEN. 


Disconsolate, and thro’ the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down. 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom ; 
Last, as it seem’d, a great mist-blotted hight 

» Flared on him, and he came upon the place. 


Then down the long street having slowly stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 

His eyes upon the stones, he reach’d the home 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes 
In those far-off seven happy years were born ; 

But finding neither hght nor murmur there 

(A bill of sale gleam’d thro’ the drizzle) crept 
Still downward thinking “ dead or dead to me!” 


Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity, 
So propt, worm eaten, ruinously old, 
He thought it must have gone; but he was gone 
Who kept it; and his widow Miriam Lane, 
With daily-dwindling profits held the house ; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 


But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in, 
Told him, with other annals of the port, 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so bow’d, 
So broken — all the story of his house. 
His baby’s death, her growing poverty, 
How Philip put her little ones to school. 


19 


675 


680 


685 


690 


695 


80 TENNYSON. 


And kept them in it, his long wooing her, 

Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth 

Of Philip’s child: and o’er his countenance 705 
No shadow past, nor motion: any one, 

Regarding, well had deem’d he felt the tale 

Less than the teller: only when she closed 

“ Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost” 

He, shaking his gray head pathetically, 710 
Repeated muttering “cast away and lost ;” 

Again in deeper inward whispers “lost!” 


But Enoch yearn’d to see her face again ; 
“Tf I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy.” So the thought 715 
Haunted and harass’d him, and drove him forth, 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below ; 
There did a thousand memories roll upon him, 720 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light, 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip’s house, 
“Kllured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 728 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 


For Philip’s dwelling fronted on the street, 
The latest house to landward; but behind, 
With one small gate that open’d on the waste, 
Flourish’d a little garden square and wall’d: 730 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 


But Enoch yearn’d to see her face again. 


ENOCH ARDEN. 81 


But Enoch shunn’d the middle walk and stole 

Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence 735 
That which he better might have shunn’d, if griefs 

Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 


For cups and silver on the burnish’d board 
Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth: 
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 740 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees ; 
And o’er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-hair’d and tall, and from her lifted hand 745 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear’d his creasy arms, 
Caught at and ever miss’d it, and they laugh’d ; 
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
The mother glancing often toward her babe, 750 
But turning now and then to speak with him, 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, 
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. 


Now when the dead man come to life beheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 755 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father’s knee, 
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, 
And his own children tall and beautiful, 
And him, that other, reigning in his place, 
Lord of his rights and of his children’s love, — 760 
Then he, tho’ Miriam Lane had told him all, 
Because things seen are mightier than things heard, 
Stagger’d and shook, holding the branch, and fear’d 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, 


82 TENNYSON. 


Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, 765 
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 


He therefore turning softly like a thief, 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, 
And feeling all along the garden-wall, 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, 770 
Crept to the gate, and open’d it, and closed, 
As lightly as a sick man’s chamber-door, 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 


And there he would have knelt, but that his knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 77a 
His fingers into the wet earth and pray’d. 


“Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence ? 
O God Almighty, blessed Savior, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, 
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 786 
A little longer! aid me, give me strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children too! must I not speak to these ? 
They know me not. I should betray myself. 785 
Never: No father’s kiss for me — the girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my son.” 


_ There speech and thought and nature fail’d a little, 

And he lay tranced ; but when he rose and paced 

Back toward his solitary home again, 790 
All down the long and narrow street he went 

Beating it in upon his weary brain, 


ENOCH ARDEN. 


As tho’ it were the burthen of a song, 
“ Not to tell her, never to let her know.” 


He was not all unhappy. His resolve 
Unvbore him, and firm faith, and evermore 
Prayer from a living source within the will, 
And beating up thro’ all the bitter world, 

Like fountains of sweet water in the sea, 

Kept hima living soul. “This miller’s wife,” 
He said to Miriam, “ that you spoke about, 

Has she no fears that her first husband lives ? ” 
** Ay, ay, poor soul,” said Miriam, “fear enow! 
If you could tell her you had seen him dead, 
Why, that would be her comfort ;” and he thought 
“ After the Lord has call’d me she shall know, 
I wait his time,” and Enoch set himself, 
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. 
Almost to all things could he turn his hand. 
Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 

To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help’d 

At lading and unlading the tall barks, 

That brought the stinted commerce of those days ; 
Thus earn’d a scanty living for himself ; 

Yet since he did but labor for himself, 

Work without hope, there was not life in it 
Whereby the man could live; and as the year 
Roll’d itself round again to meet the day 
When Enoch had return’d, a languor came 
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 
Weakening the man, till he could do no more, 
But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. 

For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck 


83 


795 


800: 


805 


£20 


815 


820 


84 TENNYSON. 


See thro’ the gray skirts of a lifting squall 
The boat that bears the hope of life approach 
To save the life despair’d of, than he saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close of all. 


For thro’ that dawning gleam’d a kindlier hope 
On Enoch thinking “after I am gone, | 
Then may she learn I lov’d her to the last,” 

He call’d aloud for Miriam Lane and said 

“ Woman, I have a secret — only swear, 

Before I tell you — swear upon the book 

Not to reveal it, till you see me dead.” 

“Dead,” clamor’d the good woman, “hear him talk! 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round.” 
“Swear,” added Enoch sternly, “on the book.” 
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. 
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, 
“Did you know Enoch Arden of this town? ” 

“ Know him?” she said, “I knew him far away. 
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street ; 
Held his head high, and cared for no man, he.” 
Slowly and sadly Enoch answer’d her ; 

“His head is low, and no man cares for him. 

I think I have not three days more to live; 

IT am the man.” At which the woman gave 

A half-incredulous, balf-hysterical cry. 

“You Arden, you! nay, —sure he was a foot 
Higher than you be.” Enoch said again 

“My God has bow’d me down to what I am; 
My grief and solitude have broken me; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am he 


825 


830 


835 


840 


845 


856 


Who married — but that name has twice been changed — 


{ married her who married Philip Ray. 


856 


ENOCH ARDEN. 


Sit, listen.” Then he told her of his voyage, 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, 

And how he kept it. ' As the woman heard, 
Fast flow’d the current of her easy tears, 
While in her heart she yearn’d incessantly 
To rush abroad all round the little haven, 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes ; 

But awed and promise-bounden she forbore, 
Saying only, “See your bairns before you go! 
Eh, let me fetch ’em, Arden,” and arose 
‘Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung 
A moment on her words, but then replied : 


“ Woman, disturb me not now at the last, | 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again; mark me and understand, 
While I have power to speak. I charge you now, 
When you shall see her, tell her that I died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her ; 
Save for the bar between us, loving her 
As when she laid her head beside my own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw 
So like her mother, that my latest breath 
Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. 
And tell my son that I died blessing him. 
And say to Philip that I blest him too; 
He never meant us anything but good. 
But if my children care to see me dead, 
Who hardly knew me living, let them come, 
I am their father; but she must not come, 
For my dead face would vex her after-life. 
And now there is but one of all my blood 


85 


860 


865 


870 


87h 


880 


885 


86 TENNYSON. 


Who will embrace me in the world-to-be : 

This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it, 

And I have borne it with me all these years, 

And thought to bear it with me to my grave; 
But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him, 
My babe in bliss: wherefore when I am gone, 
Take, give her this, for it may comfort her: 

It will moreover be a token to her, 

That I am he.” 


He ceased ; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising all, 
That once again he roll’d his eyes upon her 
Repeating all he wish’d, and once again 
She promised. 


Then the third night after this, 
While Enoch slumber’d motionless and pale, 
And Miriam watch’d and dozed at intervals, 
There came so loud a calling of the sea, 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad 
Crying with a loud voice “ A sail! a sail! 


I am saved”; and so fell back and spoke no more. 


So passed the strong heroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little port 
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 


890 


895 


900 


905 


910 


NOTES. 


(Numbers refer to lines.) 
THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


The Ancient Mariner was published in Lyrical Ballads in 1798. 
Its title was The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere in Seven Parts. In 
the second edition of Lyrical Ballads (1800) this was changed toe 
The Ancient Mariner, a Poet’s Reverie. The text was much altered 
from the original, and the extremely archaic spelling was modernized. 
The texts of 1802 and 1805 were essentially the same as that of 1800. 
In 1817 the ballad was reprinted in Sybylline Leaves, with a Latin 
motto and some textual changes. In this edition the marginal 
gloss was added and the grotesquely horrible element was made 
less prominent. An argument, or introduction, prefixed to the 
edition of 1798, was omitted in the succeeding editions until that of 
1817, when it was restored. 

The occasion of Lyrical Ballads has been related by both Coleridge 
and Wordsworth, each giving some details omitted by the other. 
Wordsworth tells us that the book grew out of a plan intended to 
furnish them with money for defraying the expenses of a walking 
tour among the Quantock Hills. The sum needed was £5, but the 
work soon more than sufficed to raise that amount. The slender 
anonymous volume did more than any other book to restore the 
romantic element to English verse. 

In Biographia Literaria Coleridge has recorded the poetic prin- 
ciples on which Lyrical Ballads is based. In conversation with 
Wordsworth they frequently discussed “the two cardinal points 
of poetry, the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a 
faithful adherence to the truth of nature, and the power of giving 
the interest of novelty by the modifying colors of the imagination.” 
It was decided to compose a series of poems of two sorts. ‘In one 
the incidents and agents were to be, in part at least, supernatural; 
and the excellence aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the 
affections by the dramatic truth of such emotions as would natu- 

87 


88 NOTES. 


rally accompany such situations, supposing them real. For the 
second class, subjects were to be chosen from ordinary life; the 
characters and incidents were to be such as will be found in every 
village and its vicinity where there is a meditative and feeling mind 
to seek after them or to notice them when they present themselves.” 

Thus originated the plan of Lyrical Ballads. Coleridge undertook 
the supernatural and romantic parts, while Wordsworth contributed 
the incidents from common life. The Ancient Mariner was the only 
poem that Coleridge furnished, though he began Christabel and 
The Dark Ladie, ‘“‘in which,” he says, “I should have more nearly 
realized my ideal than I had done in my first attempt.” 

The source of the plot has been the subject of numerous con- 
jectures. According to Coleridge, the story was founded on the 
dream of a friend. This dream, however, was merely the germ of 
the idea; the working of the poet’s imagination, the influence of his 
wide and varied reading, gradually molded the poem into some- 
thing altogether his own. In Shevlock’s Voyages occurs a passage 
describing the albatrosses observed as the ship was doubling Cape 
Horn. Wordsworth suggested that the ‘‘old navigator” be rep- 
resented as having killed one of the birds, and that the tutelary 
spirit of that region seek vengeance upon him for the crime. An- 
other book which may have had some influence is Captain Thomas 
James’s Strange and Dangerous Voyage, published in London in 
1633. Still another theory is that the poet gained his idea from a 
letter of the fourth century recounting the “astounding wonders 
concerning the shipwreck of an old man.”’ He is described as the 
sole survivor from the crews of a numerous fleet, a “crew of Angels” 
navigated his ship, and the ‘Pilot of the World steered the vessel 
to the Lucanian Shore.” Investigation of this nature, however, 
is perhaps more curious than useful; we may enjoy the wonderful 
imaginative beauty of the poem without knowledge of its origins. 

Whatever the occasion or source of the ballad may have been, 
the fact remains that The Ancient Mariner is one of the most remark- 
able creations in all literature. The general attitude of criticism 
is well shown by a few lines from James Russell Lowell : 

‘“‘It is enough for us here that he (Coleridge) has written some of 
the most poetical poetry in the language, and one poem, The Ancient 
Mariner, not only unparalleled, but unapproached in its kind, and 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 89 


that kind of the rarest. . . . Coleridge has taken the old ballad meas- 
ure and given to it, by an indefinable charm wholly his own, all the 
sweetness, all the melody and compass, of a symphony. And how 
picturesque it is in the proper sense of the word. I know nothing 
like it. There is not a description in it. It is all picture. De- 
scriptive poets generally confuse us with multiplicity of detail; we 
cannot see their forest for trees; but Coleridge never errs in this way. 
With instinctive tact he touches the right chord of association, and 
is satisfied as we also are. I should find it hard to explain the singu- 
lar charm of his diction, there is so much nicety of art and purpose in 
it, whether for music or for meaning. . . . The words seem common 
words enough, but in the order of them, in the choice, variety, and 
position of the vowel sounds, they become magical. The most 
decrepit vocable in the language throws away its crutches to dance 
and sing at his piping. . . . More bits of Coleridge have imbedded 
themselves in my memory than of any other poet who delighted 
my youth, unless I should except the sonnets of Shakespeare. This 
argues perfectness of expression.”’ 

The total impression of the poem has been summarized thus: 

“The Ancient Mariner is the baseless fabric of a vision. We are 
put under a spell, like the wedding guest, and carried off to the 
isolation and remoteness of mid-ocean. Through the chinks of the 
narrative the wedding music sounds unreal and far off. What 
may not happen to a man alone on a wide, wide sea? The line be- 
tween earthly and unearthly vanishes. Did the mariner really see 
the spectral bark and hear spirits talking, or was it all but the phan- 
tasmagoria of the calenture, the fever that attacks the sailor on the 
tropic main, so that he seems to see green meadows and water brooks 
on the level brine? Noone can tell; for he is himself the only wit- 
ness, and the ship is sunk at the harbor mouth. One conjectures 
that no wreckers or divers will ever bring it to the top again. Nay, 
was not the mariner, too, a specter? Now he is gone, and what was 
all this that he told me, thinks the wedding guest, as he rises on the 
morrow morn. Or did he tell me, or did I only dream it? A light 
shadow cast by some invisible thing swiftly traverses the sunny face 
of nature and is gone. Did we see it, or imagine it? Even so elu- 
sive, so uncertain, so shadowy and phantom-like is the spiriting of 
this wonderful poem.” 


90 NOTES. 


Speaking of the technique of the poem, Wordsworth said: ‘‘The 
versification is harmonious and exquisitely varied, exhibiting the 
utmost powers of the ballad meter and every variety of which it is 
capable.” The well-known “ballad stanza’”’ adopted by Coleridge 
consists of four lines, alternately three and four feet, and rhymed 
in the second and fourth lines. But the freedom with which this old 
measure is handled constitutes much of the peculiar charm of The 
Ancient Mariner. 

Thus, the poet does not confine himself to four lines; we find 
six- and eight-line stanzas, and a few even of nine lines, where the 


thought gains both in beauty and effectiveness from being treated ‘ 


at greater length. To understand the point, read lines 45-50, the 
whole stanza formed by lines 203-11, or the exquisite simile contained 
in the stanza beginning with line 367. <A study of the metrical forms 
will reveal the extraordinary skill displayed by Coleridge. Every 
device known to the ballad type is used in the poem. Two other 
points may be mentioned. The first is “internal rhyme,” which 
appears frequently, and of which a fine example is the passage be- 
ginning ‘‘ The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew”’ (line 103). The 
second point is the use of alliteration, to illustrate which we may cite 
the lines, 
“Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide, wide sea.”’ 


The diction is entirely in keeping with the spirit of the old ballad 
literature. Archaic words are employed, such as “‘eftsoon,”’ ‘‘clift,”’ 
“swound,” ‘‘uprist,’’ to produce the right ballad effect. In the 
first edition of The Ancient Mariner this archaic usage was much more 
freely employed, but the later issues tended to suggest and not 
directly to imitate the ancient methods. Extreme simplicity of 
phrase is also characteristic of the diction — 


“The sun came up upon the left, 
Out of the sea came he.”’ 


“The silly buckets on the deck, 
That had so long remained, 
I dreamt that they were filled with dew, 
And when I awoke, it rained.” 


—" 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 91 


But whether the diction be archaic or artless, it suits itself marvel- 
ously to the atmosphere of old times in which the scene of the action 
is laid. 

2. one of three: Throughout the poem the prevailing numbers 
are three, five, seven, and nine. The odd numbers have always 
been regarded as fitting to the supernatural — the nine muses, the 
three fates, etc. There are three Witches in Macbeth, and one of 
them sings, 

‘Thrice to mine and thrice to thine, 
And thrice again to make up nine. 
Peace, the charm’s wound up.” 


8. the feast is set: Can you see why a wedding is chosen to form 
the natural background of the poem? Walter Pater says (A ppre- 
ciations, p. 101) that the unity of this poem is secured in part by 
the skill with which the incidents of the wedding feast are made to 
break in dreamily from time to time upon the main story. 

11. loon: Cf. Macbeth, V. 3. 1-2. 

12. Eftsoons: immediately, at once. An obsolete word, intro- 
duced to give an archaic flavor to the poem. 

15-16. These lines were furnished by Wordsworth. 

23. kirk: church. Note how the shore-line gradually disappears 
as the ship sails farther from land. ‘‘ As the ship leaves the harbor, 
the dropping from sight first of the kirk, then of the hill, finally of 
the lighthouse top, gives a condensed picture of a North Devonshire 
harbor town, with its church and cluster of houses nestled in a cleft 
of the steep hills that overhang the sea.” 

25. upon the left, because the ship was heading south. Coleridge 
is careful to indicate the position of the ship from time to time. Due 
south she sails into the South Polar seas, where we are to suppose 
sheis savedfrom the ice by the Albatross. Then she steers north 
before the south wind, until she is becalmed in the tropics, and 
is met by the specter ship. The Mariner’s vessel is then “‘ moved 
onward from beneath” by the Polar Spirit. They reach the 
equator, 


“The Sun, right up above the mast, 
Had fixed her to the ocean.”’ 


92 NOTES. 


The struggle between the Polar Spirit seeking vengeance for the 
death of the albatross, and the Guardian Saint is shown by the 
“short, uneasy motion ”’ of the ship. Finally the Polar Spirit is 
satisfied by the promise that the Mariner ‘‘ penance more must do,” 
and the ship sails on. 

29. Higher and higher, etc.: because the ship is sailing south into 
the tropics. 

32. bassoon: a deep-toned wind instrument. The merriment of 
the wedding is contrasted with the grim tale of the Ancient Mariner. 

36. minstrelsy: band of musicians, leading the wedding party to 
the banquet. 

45-50. One of the fine similes for which the poem is famous. 

53. ice, mast-high, etc.: Captain James, North-West Passage: 
“‘ All this day we did beat and were beaten fearfully amongst the 
ice, it blowing a very storm. In the evening were inclosed amongst 
great pieces, as high as our poop; and some of the sharp blue cor- 
ners of them did reach quite under us. We had ice not far off about 
us, and some pieces as high as our topmast head.”’ 

51-62. Travelers in the Polar regions have commented upon the 
accuracy of this description. Fog and snow, followed by ice, are 
familiar features of those sections. 

55. clifts: old form of “ cliffs.” It survives in our modern “‘ cleft.” 

62. swound: swoon, dream. 

63. Albatross: a sea-bird of great strength and beauty, native to 
the Antarctic Ocean. Shevlock, in his Voyages, speaks thus: 
“These were accompanied by albatrosses, the largest sort of sea 
fowls, some of them extending their wings 12 or 13 feet.’’ The in- 
cident of the Albatross was suggested by Wordsworth. Of his 
part in the poem he said: ‘‘ Much the greatest part of the story 
was Mr. Coleridge’s invention; but certain parts I suggested... . 
As we endeavored to proceed conjointly . . . our respective manners 
proved so widely different that it would have been quite presump- 
tuous in me to do anything but separate from an undertaking upon 
which I could only have been a clog.” 

76. vespers nine: that is, for nine days. ‘‘ Vespers’ 
evening service repeated in churches. 

79-82. The bond of fellowship between man and animal is broken ; 
moreover, the Albatross had saved the ship. The crime, involving 


’ was the 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 93 


cruelty and ingratitude, is committed and punishment must follow. 
Wanton cruelty is a sin that calls for vengeance. We must be care- 
ful, however, not to insist too closely upon the “ moral” of the 
poem. It is to be read for its imaginative beauty and its metrical 
charm — in a word, as poetry. 

83. upon the right: the ship is now heading north. 

91-102. The uncertainty of the sailors is typical of the ignorant, 
who are influenced in their opinions by mere external circumstances. 

98. uprist: obsolete form for “ uprose.”’ 

104. In Sybylline Leaves (1817) this line reads: 


“The furrow streamed off free.’’ 


The following note was added by Coleridge: ‘‘ I had not long been 
on board a ship before I perceived that this was the image as seen 
from the shore, or from another vessel. From the ship itself the 
wake appears like a brook flowing off from the stern.’’ The earlier 
reading reappeared in subsequent editions. It is certainly more 
euphonious, and Coleridge was evidently willing to allow the unim- 
portant inaccuracy in order to gain a greater beauty of expression. 

106. Although Coleridge’s marginal gloss here mentions the Pacific, 
it would seem that the poet had in mind the Sargasso Sea. If this 
be so, the general description which follows is more true and the 
further movement of the voyage to his own country becomes more 
appropriate. 

125-6. The testimony of a sailor bears witness to the truth of Cole- 
ridge’s imaginative picture: ‘“‘ Next day, and for a whole week after, 
we had a stark calm — such a calm as one realizes who reads sym- 
pathetically that magical piece of work, the ‘ Ancient Mariner.’ 
What an amazing instance of the triumph of the human imagination ! 
For Coleridge certainly never witnessed such a scene as he there 
describes with an accuracy of detail that is astounding. Very few 
sailors have noticed the sickening condition of the ocean when the 
life-giving breeze totally fails for any length of time, or, if they have, 
they have said but little about it. Of course, some parts of the sea 
show the evil effects of stagnation much sooner than others; but, 
generally speaking, want of wind at sea, if long continued, ED 
a condition of things dangerous to the fein of any land nearby.” 
F. T. Bullen, in The Cruise of the Cachelot. 


94 NOTES. 


141-2. This is what we call ‘ poetic justice,”’ 7.e., the punishment 

is fitted to the crime. Note that the “ cross ”’ is the sign of deliv- 
erance from sin, whereas the Albatross is the sign of the sin itself. 
Note, too, that each part of the poem, except the last, closes with 
some reference to the Albatross, or the penance, or the sin. 

148. Instances of ships being becalmed for days and even weeks at 
a time were, of course, common in Coleridge’s day. The era of 
steam had not yet arrived. 

152. I wist: old form for ‘I know.” A corruption of the Anglo- 
Saxon adverb gewitss, certainly. 

155. sprite: spirit. 

164. The word grin is here used with peculiar suggestiveness. The 
face is distorted, the muscles drawn with the agony of thirst. In 
Table Talk (May 31, 1830), Coleridge writes: ‘‘ I took the thought 
of grinning for joy from my companion’s remark to me when we had 
climbed to the top of Plimlimmon, and were fairly dead with thirst. 
We could not speak from constriction till we found a little puddle 
under astone. He said to me, ‘ You grinned like an idiot!’ He had 
done the same.” 

168. work us weal: do us good, help us. The word ‘ weal ”’ is 
cbsolete, surviving only in “ weal-th,” and the proverbial ‘in weal 
or woe.” 

178. Heaven’s Mother: Mary, Queen of Heaven — Regina Coeli. 

184. gossameres: cobwebs, poetic form of ‘‘gossamer.’’ Note 
the exact observation in “‘ restless gossameres.”’ 

185. At this point Coleridge deliberately adds such details as will 
make the picture more ghastly. In the first edition (Lyrical Bal- 
lads) the following stanza is found: 


‘“‘ His bones were black with many a crack, 
All black and bare, I ween; 
Jet-black and bare, save where with rust 
Of mouldy damps and charnel crust 
They’re patch’d with purple and green.”’ 


The last two lines of the next stanza read, — 


‘““ And she is far liker Death than he; 
Her flesh makes the still air cold.” 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 95 


Can you give any reason for the change? Coleridge, commenting on 
Milton’s description of Death (Paradise Lost, Book II, lines 666 ff.), re- 
marks: “ The grandest efforts of poetry are when the imagination is 
called forth to produce, not a distinct form, but a strong working of 
the mind, still offering what is still repelled, and again creating what 
is again rejected; the result being what the poet wishes to impress, 
viz., the substitution of a sublime feeling of the unimaginable for 
mere images.”’ 

192. white as leprosy: See II Kings, V. 27. 

193. The Nightmare Life-in-Death diced with Death for the soul 
of the Ancient Mariner. The former won, and the fate of the wan- 
derer was to live under the doom of telling his tale ‘‘ at an uncertain 
hour.” 

199-200. The rapid coming of darkness is characteristic of the 
Tropics. 

203-5. A wonderful suggestion of extreme fear. sideways, as of 
one expecting a blow without any idea where it is to come from. 

209. clomb: archaic form of “‘ climbed.’ the eastern bar: the 
horizon. 

226-7. These lines are Wordsworth’s. 

232-62. These stanzas express what Coleridge called ‘‘ the sublime 
feeling of the unimaginable,” to show the horror undergone by the 
Ancient Mariner in punishment for his crime. 

263. From here to the end of the section, the feeling gradually 
changes from horror to the sensations of beauty and peace. At 
last the Ancient Mariner is moved to a spirit of love for the ‘‘ happy 
living things,” and his curse passes from him. Read the beautiful 
marginal gloss on lines 257-71. 

292-6. An excellent example of ‘‘ onomatopoeia.” Coleridge ex- 
presses the comfort and refreshment of sleep by the sound of the 
words as well as by their meaning. 

297. silly: empty, useless. 

302. dank: sodden, drenched. 

310. anear: poetic form of ‘ near.” 

312. sere: worn with age. The word is now spelt sear. The 
literal meaning is dry, or withered, as in Shakespeare’s 

“my way of life 
Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf.” 


96 NOTES. 


There seems to be always the connotation of old age. It is an inter-~ 
esting question whether in Coleridge’s usage there is not a sugges- 
tion of a long space of time having elapsed during the voyage, so 
that the sailor who started out a young man has at the end become 
the ‘ ancient mariner ”’ with his long gray beard and skinny hand. 
The ship, too, grows old and worn, so that the Hermit notices her 
‘“‘ warped planks ” and the weather-beaten sails hanging like “‘ brown 
skeletons of leaves”’ (lines 530, 533). The conception of a long 
passage of time imposed by supernatural means occurs in several 
medizeval legends, and has been preserved to our own day in the 
familiar tale of Rip Van Winkle. 

314. sheen: brilliant, shining. In line 56 the word is used as a 
noun. 

317. wan: pale, because dimmed by the “ fire-flags.”’ 

319. sedge: water-weeds on a river-bank. 

338. wont: accustomed. 

358-72. These stanzas are some of the most melodious in all poe- 
try. For pure beauty of sound and loveliness of suggestion it is 
dificult to find anything more charming than the lines 369-72. 
Swinburne had in mind such a passage as this when he wrote: ‘‘ Of 
Coleridge’s best verses I venture to affirm that the world has noth- 
ing like them, and can never have.”’ 

362. jargoning: confused melody. 

377. nine fathom deep: a “fathom ”’ is six feet; the expression 
here, however, is used merely to suggest great depth. 

379. the spirit: see line 132. 

382. Note the accent of “‘ also,’ intentionally reminiscent of the 
old ballad meter. 

383. The Sun, etc.: They are now on the equator, and the Polar 
Spirit has no power north of the line. He attempts to hold the ship, 
but the kindly Guardian Saint wins her for the homeward voyage. 

386-8. The “ echo ” effect here was afterwards much used by Ed- 
gar Allan Poe, a great admirer of Coleridge and temperamentally 
not unlike him. 

394. I cannot say, I do not know. 

399. A common form of oath used in the ballads. 

404-5. The cruelty and ingratitude of the Ancient Mariner is here 
indicated. 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. Sih 


419. A reference to the movement of the tides, which are caused 
by the influence of the moon. 

435. charnel-dungeon: a ‘ charnel-house,’’ in medieval times, 
was the place where the dead body was placed before the actual 
burial. 

443. the ocean green: that is, the natural, wholesome sea, as con- 
trasted with the terrible region where the ship had been held so long. 
The Ancient Mariner is returning to the world of reality. 

446-51. A fine poetical interpretation of an experience known to 
most persons. In Lamb’s essay Witches and Other Night Fears this 
stanza is quoted, and comment is made upon Coleridge’s imagina- 
tive power. 

464-7. Cf. lines 21-24. 

467. A typical ballad line. 

472. ‘‘ How pleasantly, how reassuringly, the whole nightmare 
story is made to end among the clear, fresh sounds and lights of the 
bay where it began.”’ The lines from 472 to 480 are filled with a 
peculiar beauty of calm and moonlight. Note, in particular, the 
phrases, “ clear as glass,” ‘‘ shadow of the Moon,” “ white with 
silent light,’’ and the supreme touch 


“The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock.”’ 


489. A familiar ballad oath. 

490-5. Wordsworth suggested this incident. The good spirits 
come to help the Ancient Mariner. They signal the land, and the 
Pilot rows out to take the ship into port. 

498-9. The underlying thought has never been so finely expressed. 

501. cheer: the Pilot hails the ship. 

507. blast: destroy. Cf. Hamlet, I. 1. 127: 


“Tl cross it, though it blast me.” 


512. shrieve my soul: absolve me from my sin. ‘“ Shrieve”’ is 
an obsolete form of “ shrive.”’ 

517-9. Note the typical ballad line-ending. 

517-8. The archaic spelling should be noted. 

524. trow: vow, declare. 

525. lights: cf. lines 494-5. 

526. that is the subject of made. 


98 NOTES. 


529. warped: twisted, bent— here, from age. The ship has 
been long at sea. 

530. sere: again the age of the ship is emphasized, as in lines 
312 and 529. 

535. ivy-tod: bush, thick mass of growing foliage. 

536. the wolf below, etc.: This casual mention of wolves is in- 
troduced to suggest the old-time setting of the story. 

549. The ship went down like lead: The ship has been a stage for 
the enacting of strange and terrible things; its disappearance frees 
the Ancient Mariner from the records of his sin. We know now that 
it was a magic ship, such as can never be seen again, and we turn 
from the region of mystery to that of human reality. 

558-9. A fine poetic suggestion of an echo. 

575. Made the sign of the cross, to protect himself from evil. 

591. With the close of the wonderful tale, the actual world once 
more bursts upon us. 

595. vesper-bell: bell for evening service. 

597-600. Cf. lines 232-5. 

621. Turned from the bridegroom’s door: Why? 

623. forlorn: bereft, deprived. 

624. sadder: more serious, more thoughtful. 

The conclusion of the poem suggests the spirit of universal love. 
The opinion of Coleridge with regard to this ‘‘ moral ”’ element may 
be judged from a remark in his Table Talk: ‘‘ Mrs. Barbauld once 
told me that she admired The Ancient Mariner very much, but that 
there were two faults in it, — it was improbable and had no moral. 
As to the probability, I owned that that might admit some ques- 
tion, but as to the want of moral, I told her that in my judgment 
the poem had too much; and that the only or chief fault, if I might 
say so, was the obtrusion of the moral sentiment so openly on the 
reader, as a principle or cause of action in a work of such pure im- 
agination. It ought to have had no more moral than the Arabian 
Nights Tales.” 


A summary of the thought which underlies the poem, in so far 
as it yields itself to summarizing, will be helpful to the student. 
Part I contains a ‘statement of the problem ’” —if so unim- 
aginative a phrase can be applied to a highly imaginative piece of 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 99 


writing. The Ancient Mariner has destroyed the harmony between 
nature and man by killing the albatross. To Coleridge such an act 
was treason against the laws of life. 

Part II shows the companions of the Ancient Mariner involved 
in his sufferings. They curse him, and as a reminder of his sin hang 
the dead albatross about his neck. 

Part III depicts the Ancient Mariner as the prey of Life-in-Death. 
He is separated by Death from his companions. 

Part IV gives a vivid picture of the agony suffered by the Ancient 
Mariner, when 


“The sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky 
Lay like a load on my weary eye 
And the dead were at my feet.” 
All Nature is against him. But at last, unselfishly, he cries out in 
admiration of the happy living things in the sea — 


“I blessed them unaware.”’ 


Then the curse is loosed; he is again at one with life. 

Part V relates how Nature now works for the release of the An- 
cient Mariner, but the consequences of his sin are still felt. Even 
his companions cannot really live. 

Part VI. Here we have the return to normal life. Yet the An- 
cient Mariner “ has penance more ”’ to do. 

Part VII. The sin of the Ancient Mariner is forgiven, but not 
forgotten. He must still work out his fate — for ‘“‘ no man liveth 
unto himself.’”’ He is doomed to ‘ pass like night from land to 
land,” and tell his tale. 


TYPICAL PASSAGES FROM THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


The bride hath paced into the hall, 
Red as a rose is she; 

Nodding their heads before her, goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 


‘The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared 
‘Merrily did we drop 
f | ‘Below the kirk, below the hill, 
| Below the lighthouse top. 
ALgne, alons, al g oll Par on aA 
a) Plows OV Aer Letole, ae, he é Ae A Xue 
MV LANA fhe aout “eat aps “yee 


VV Ad Sel utube hte, Bt; SRA. 


100 


NOTES. 


As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe, 
And forward bends his head. 


And now there came both mist and snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold, 

And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 

As green as emerald. 


The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 
The furrow followed free ; 
We were the first that ever burst 


Into that silent sea. 


Day after day, day after day, 

We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
As idle as a painted ship 

Upon a painted ocean. 


Water, water, everywhere, 

And all the boards did shrink; /¢ 
Water, water, everywhere, 

Nor any drop to drink. 


The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she, 
Who thicks men’s blood with cold. 


The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out: 
At one stride comes the dark. 


Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 
My lifeblood seemed to sip! 


Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide, wide sea! 


O happy living things! no tongue 
Their beauty might declare : 

A spirit of love gushed from my heart, 
And I blessed them unaware! 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


O sleep! itis a gentle thing, 
Beloved from pole to pole! 


Sometimes a dropping from the sky 

I heard the skylark sing ; 

Sometimes all little birds that are, 
How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
With their sweet jargoning! 


An angel’s song, 
That makes the heavens be mute. 


It ceased; yet still the sails made on 
A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune. 


Still as a slave before his lord, 
The Ocean hath no blast ; 

His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the Moon is cast. 


Like one that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread, 


And having once turned round walks on, 


And turns no more his head, 
Because he knows a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 


The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 


The bay was white with silent light. 


No voice did they impart, — 
No voice; but oh! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 


All was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 


101 


102 


NOTES. 


This soul hath been 
Alone on a wide, wide sea: 
So lonely ’twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 


| He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things, both great and small; 
For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all. 


QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION BASED ON 


wo 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


. Make a list of the archaic words used by Coleridge. Why are 


such words employed? Discuss their poetic value. 

The supernatural element in the poem. 

Trace the dominating motive in each of the seven divisions. 
Give some instances of the use of metaphor and simile. Is 
their chief function to develop the thought, or to increase the 
beauty of the poem? 

Select, forming your judgment by oral reading, some passages 
which are marked by charm of melody. Investigate Coleridge’s 
use of ‘‘ onomatopceia,’”’ the poetic device wherein the sound of 
the words reflects the meaning. 

In what respects does Coleridge modify the typical ballad form 
in the course of the poem? If you are familiar with any of the 
old ballads, indicate the chief points of resemblance and differ- 
ence. Characteristic ballads are: Sir Patrick Spens, The 
Hunting of the Cheviot, or any of the Robin Hood cycle. 


. What use is made by Coleridge of natural scenery? Compare 


his nature-pictures with those of Wordsworth in such poems as 
Tintern Abbey, the Immortality Ode, or The Daffodils. 

Can you explain why Wordsworth, as he tells us, withdrew from 
taking part in the composition of The Ancient Mariner? What 
would have been the result, in your opinion, of a continued 
association of the two poets in this instance? 

The “ pictures’ in the poem. How are they made effective? 


. Why is the “ merry din” of the wedding feast suggested at 


intervals? 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 103 


11. How does the poet emphasize the ideas of loneliness — of hor- 
ror — of thirst — of peace after suffering? _ 

12. Cite two or three passages which seem to you characteristic of 
Coleridge’s poetic style. In what do you find their strongest 
appeal? 

13. What did Coleridge mean by saying that, in his opinion, the 
poem had ‘‘ too much” moral? Do you agree with this view? 

14. Of the close of The Ancient Mariner a critic has said: ‘‘ This 
unexpected gentle conclusion brings our feet back to the common 
soil with a bewildered sweetness of relief and soft quiet after 
the prodigious strain of mental excitement.” 

Write a careful explanatory comment upon this statement. 

15. Explain, or comment upon, the following: 

“There was a ship,’”’ quoth he. Listens like a three-years’ 
child. A dismal sheen. Noises in a swound. A witch’s oils. 
They for joy did grin. To work us weal. White as leprosy. 
The star-dogged Moon. The silly buckets. For a charnel 
dungeon fitter. I viewed the ocean green. The harbor bay 
was clear as glass. He loves to talk with marineres. The 
hill was telling of the sound. Of sense forlorn. 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 


In Sohrab and Rustum Arnold has been careful to observe the 
traditions of Epic poetry. The epic is defined as a long narrative 
poem, written in stately verse, in which the events are grouped about 
some great central figure — usually a god or a hero. The plot is 
simple and the action moves forward by a series of episodes. Epic 
poems usually have a national significance, or are in some way 
typical of national life and experience. The great epics are: Greek, 
Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey; Roman, Vergil’s Aineid; Italian, 
Dante’s Divine Comedy; Anglo-Saxon, Beowulf; English, Milton’s 
Paradise Lost. Of Arnold’s poem a critic has said that it is “ the 
nearest analogue in English to the plainness of thought, plainness 
of diction, and nobleness of Homer.” 

Further resemblances may be pointed out, whereby the epic 
spirit is preserved. There are many fime pictures in the poem — 


104 NOTES. 


notably, for example, the opening passage, and lines 334-40. The 
similes, too, are typical; one would especially instance the noble 
lines about the eagle (lines 556-75), which constitute one of the most 
beautiful similes in the English language. Typical, also, is the de- 
liberate description of the single combat — the speeches, and the 
telling of each blow given. Finally, we should note the ‘ objec- 
tivity ’’ of the whole poem — the manner, that is, in which the poet’s 
personality is kept in the background, and the action carried to its 
conclusion without comment made or moral drawn. All these 
qualities are Homeric. And the noble descriptive passage at the 
close serves excellently to leave upon our minds the impression of a 
classic purity of style. 

The poem is based upon a single episode in the Shah Nameh, or 
‘“ Book of Kings,” the great Persian epic written by the poet Fir- 
dusi in the tenth century. In the main, Arnold has closely followed 
the original, but in minor details he has adapted the “ tale of tears,” 
as the episode is called, to his own needs. 

Rustum, son of Zal, is the hero of Shah Nameh. During one of his 
many expeditions he married a beautiful maiden named Tamineh, 
but was soon called away to a fresh adventure. Sohrab, their son, 
was born after Rustum left. The mother, fearing that her boy 
would be taken from her, sent word to Rustum that the child was a 
girl. As Sohrab grew up he learned that the mighty Rustum was 
his father and determined to find him began a search through the 
wide world. 


‘““T seek one man, one man, and one alone, — 
Rustum, my father; who I hoped should greet, 
Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field, 
His not unworthy, not inglorious, son.” 


Arnold’s poem opens at the time when the Tartars have invaded 
Persia; among them the bravest champion is Sohrab. To round 
out and complete the story, Arnold modified it here and there. 


1. And: This word emphasizes the episodic character of the poem. 
It is used in the sense of “ to continue the narrative.” 

2. Oxus: now called the Amoo Darya. Compare these lines with 
those which complete the poem, 875 to the end. ‘ The introduction 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 105 


of the tranquil pictures of the Oxus, both at the beginning and close 
of the poem, flowing steadily on, unmoved by the tragedy which 
has been enacted on her shore, forms one of the most artistic fea- 
tures in the setting of the story.””’ The Oxus rises in the Pamir table- 
land, in a lake 15,000 feet above sea level, and flows northwest into 
the Aral Sea. Its length is 1300 miles. 

3. Tartar: This is the general name for the nomadic tribes that 
inhabit Central Asia and Southern Russia. The Kalmuck tribe, 
celebrated by De Quincey in The Flight of a Tartar Tribe, is one 
of them. The Tartars were a fierce and warlike people; hence 
the expression ‘‘ he caught a Tartar.” 

il. Peran-Wisa was a Turanian chief and the general of King 
Afrasiab’s forces. Iran, the Persian empire, was separated from 
Turania by the Oxus. 

12. The comparative luxury of the Persians, as compared to the 
plain living of the hardy Tartars, is suggested in line 192. 

13. bee-hives: in allusion to the characteristic shape of the Tar- 
tar tents. 

15. Pamere: a table-land 16,000 feet high, north of Afghanistan. 
The natives call it ‘the roof of the world.” 

19. In summer the land was flooded. 

23. felts: skins specially prepared. 

38. Afrasiab was king of the Turanians and had many Tartar tribes 
among his forces (see lines 119-34). In the old legends he was said 
to be as strong as a lion and his shadow to extend for miles. At 
the time of the episode described in our poem the great power of 
Afrasiab was waning. The house of Zal (Rustum’s father) had 
pledged itself to expel the invaders. This promise was fulfilled 
through the prowess of Rustum, who defeated Afrasiab and com- 
pelled his retreat across the Oxus. 

40. Samarcand: acity in what isnow Russian Turkestan. It is 
to-day a center of Mohammedan culture and learning. 

42. Ader-baijan (Azer-biyan): a province on the northwest fron- 
tier of Persia, near Turania. 

49. Here is the motive that furnishes the tragic element of the 
story. 

82. Seistan: Pronounced in three syllables —Se-is-tan. A Prov- 
ince of Afghanistan, containing a lake of the same name. Zal, 


106 ' NOTES. 


Rustum’s father, was said to be descended from Benjamin, son ot 
David. When he was born his hair was snow-white, and Saum, 
his father, left him to die in the mountains. He was found and 
cared for, however, by a “griffin,” a creature half lion and half 
eagle, which carried him away to its nest. Here he was safely kept 
until his father repented and took him home again. 

85. Cf. lines 226-7. 

86-91. Peran-Wisa’s solicitude for Sohrab is an invention of 
Arnold’s. Why is it introduced? 

92. ravening: searching for prey. 

94-104. This passage is conceived in the true epic manner. The 
attention to detail — the interest of the poet in a vivid picture — 
is characteristic of all great epic poems. For another example, see 
lines 265-70. 

99. ruler’s staff: emblem of leadership used on a peaceful mission. 
See II Kings IV. 29. 

101. Kara-Kul was about 30 miles southwest of Bokhara, and 
was noted for the fine quality of its fleeces. 

107. Haman: second-in-command, after Peran-Wisa. 

110-40. This ‘‘ geographical” passage is typical of the epic style. 
Such name-lists appear in the Jliad and the A4neid, and may readily 
be found in Milton’s Paradise Lost —see Book I, lines 376-521, Book 
XI, lines 385-411. Arnold is careful to select in this passage names 
which not only possess historical significance, but which also in them- 
selves have musical sound. Most of the places mentioned may be 
found on maps of Afghanistan, Turkestan, or Persia. 

113. Casbin: a fortified city on the old caravan route from Persia 
to Europe. 

114. Elburz: a mountain north of Casbin, forming the “ divide”’ 
between the Persian plateau and the Caspian Sea. 

Aralian estuaries: river-mouths along the Aral Sea. 

115. frore: frozen. Cf. Milton, Paradise Lost, Book II, lines 594-5: 


“. , . the parched air 
Burns frore, and cold performs the effect of fire.” 


119. Bokhara: a region of Central Asia. 
120. Khiva: a province in the valley of the lower Oxus, south- 
east of Bokhara. 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 107 


ferment the milk of mares: ‘“ An intoxicating drink, koumiss 
made of camel’s or mare’s milk, is in wide use among the steppe 
tribes.”’ 

121. Toorkmuns: our modern ‘“‘ Turcomans,”’ a branch of the 
Turkish race found chiefly in northern Persia and Afghanistan. 

122. Tukas: soldiers from the provinces of Ader-baijan. 

123. Attruck: a river running west in Khorassan and emptying 
into the Caspian Sea. 

128. Ferghana: a province of Turkestan. 

129. Jaxartes: the old name of the Sir Daria river, which flows 
north from the Pamir into the Aral Sea. 

131. Kipchack: a province south of Khiva, on the Oxus river. 

132. Kalmucks: a nomadic tribe of the Mongolian race, living 
in western Siberia. 

Kuzzaks: the ‘‘ Cossacks” of the Russian steppes, a warlike 
people of uncertain origin. 

133. Kirghizzes: a wild tribe related both to the Mongols and 
Tartars, and dwelling in northern Turkestan. 

138. Khorassan: ‘ The land of the sun ’’ — a desert province of 
northeastern Persia. 

Ilyats: irregular soldiers, or “‘ levies.”’ 

147. fixed: halted, drew up. 

154-6. One of the numerous fine similes which add so greatly to 
the beauty and significance of the poem. See, for other examples, 
lines 302-8, 556-75. Such similes are typical of the epic style. Com- 
pare the famous lines in Paradise Lost, Book I, lines 589-600 : 


““ He above the rest 

Stood like a tower; his form had not yet lost 
All her original brightness, nor appeared 

' Less than archangel ruined, and the excess 
Of glory obscured: as when the sun new ris’n 
Looks through the horizontal misty air 
Shorn of his beams, or from behind the moon 
In dim eclipse disastrous twilight sheds 
On half the nations, and with fear of change 
Perplexes monarchs. Dark’n’d so, yet shone 
Above them all the Archangel.” 


108 NOTES 


The two similes of lines 154-69 serve to indicate in a very vivid 
way the effect of the challenge upon the two armies. 

156. corn: here used in the English sense of “ grain.”” In America 
the word has come to mean Indian corn, or ‘‘ maize.” 

160. Cabool: The capital of Afghanistan; an important mer- 
cantile center. 

161. Indian Caucasus: The “ Hindoo Koosh”’ mountains, a 
lofty range north of Cabool, forming the boundary between Tur- 
kestan and Afghanistan. 

173. The King: Kai Khosroo — see lines 223-4. 

178-9. The picture of Rustum sullenly abiding in his tent brings 
to mind the similar attitude of Achilles in the Iliad, Book I. 

200. falcon: aspecies of hawk, carefully trained for catching game 
birds. 

217. Iran’s chiefs: Persian chiefs. The Persians called their 
country Iran. Tradition says that the Persians and the Turks 
were descended from two brothers, Iran and Turan. 

221. Goto! Anexpletive, common in Elizabethan English, equiva: 
lent to “‘ Nonsense!’’ Rustum’s speech gives us some idea of the 
reasons for his anger with the king. 

223. Kai Khosroo has been identified with Cyrus the Creat, who 
lived about 500 B.c. In placing the story of Sohrab and Rustum 
in his reign, Arnold has varied the statement of the Shah Nameh, 
which put the incident during the reign of the ‘‘ weak and brainless 
monarch” Kai Kaoos. Can you assign any reason for such a change? 

230. Note the ‘‘ dramatic irony ” of this remark. See lines 609-11. 

233. Modern Afghanistan includes ancient Seistan, where Zal lived. 

242-8. Note how, when other means fail, the sneer of Gudurz 
moves Rustum to fight. For a somewhat similar situation, see 
Julius Cesar, II. 2. 96-104. 

257. in plain arms: with no device on the shield. This is an al- 
lusion to the custom of emblazoning the shields of knights with 
mottoes and devices. The method is well illustrated in Scott’s Ivan- 
hoe. 

Why does Rustum make this decision? What is its effect upon 
the outcome of tne conflict? 

266. device: coat-of-arms, or other design by which he might 
be recognized. 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 109 


270. Inepic poetry, the horse of the hero plays an important part. 
Thus we have Xanthus, the horse of Achilles, in the Iliad. In the 
Shah Nameh we read that Rustum when ¢ youth long sought a 
horse to carry him on his adventures. He tried many in vain, and 
at last, near Cabool, found a “ rose-colored’ steed of marvelous 
strength who had allowed no one to mount him until his pre-or- 
dained master, Rustum, appeared. It was predicted that Rustum, 
mounted on Ruksh, would save the world. 

Arnold, while preserving the spirit of the old epic, has somewhat 
simplified the story at this point. 

288. tale: amount, number. Cf. Milton, L’ Allegro, lines 67-8: 


‘“‘ And every shepherd tells his tale, 
Under the hawthorn in the dale.” 


306. flowers: decorates with “ frost-flowers.” 

311. perused: studied, watched closely. 

314-8. Arnold was careful to select Eastern imagery in this pas- 
sage. Hence, the “ cypress, tall and dark and straight,’ and the 
‘* queen’s secluded garden.” 

322. The conversation between heroes before they fight is com- 
mon in epic poetry. Here, what is-said adds greatly to the dra- 
matic effect of the poem. Arnold has followed the Shah Nameh very 
closely at this point. 

326. tried: experienced, tested by battle. 

330. governed: persuaded. 

331. Effective dramatic irony. Cf. lines 229, 447, 708-10. 

343. by thy father’s head, etc.: Such expressions are common in 
the impassioned language of the East. 

345. askance: doubtfully, suspiciously. 

367. vaunt: boast. 

397. Cf. Julius Cesar, V. 1. 123-6: 

“QO, that a man might know 
The end of this day’s business, ere it come; 
But it sufficeth that the day will end, 
And then the end is known.” 


401. towered: poised. 
412. Hyphasis or Hydaspes: rivers of the Punjab in Northern 
Sndia. The modern names are Jhelum and Beas. 


110 NOTES. 


414. wrack: wreckage, ruin. 

418. glancing: gleaming in swift movement. 

436-47. The pathetic appeal of Sohrab increases the tragic power 
of the poem. 

452. that autumn star: Sirius, supposed by the ancients to cause 
epidemic diseases. It is also called the Dog Star and is the most 
brilliant fixed star in the heavens. 

453. baleful: foreboding evil. 

454. crest: helmet and plume. 

455. twice his voice, etc.: Cf. Paradise Lost, I. 619-21: 


“Thrice he essayed, and thrice in spite of scorn, 
Tears such as angels weep burst forth: at last 
Words interwove with sighs found out their way.” 


458. minion: women’s darling. 

470. In the Shah Nameh the conflict is not confined to one day; 
Sohrab and Rustum contend three times. The first day’s battle is 
ended by the approach of night. In order to increase the rapidity 
of the action and to heighten its dignity, Arnold has compressed 
the three battles into a single combat. 

Why do you suppose he thus modified the original? 

536. glad: make happy. 

556-75. This is one of the most beautiful similes in English 
poetry. 

563. sole: alone. 

570. glass: reflect. 

577. prate: foolish talk. 

590. my mother: etc., Sohrab’s mother was Tamineh, a Tartar 
princess. The Shah Nameh tells us that she was enamored of 
Rustum from hearing of his knightly deeds. On one occasion her 
emissaries stole Ruksh and led him away to Ader-baijan while 
Rustum was asleep: When he awoke, the hero tracked his horse 
to Samenegan, capital of Turan. He was met by the king, anxious 
to honor so distinguished a visitor. Rustum refused the proffered 
hospitality and demanded his horse.. The king promised to return 
Ruksh, and while search was being made Rustum accepted the 
royal hospitality. Meantime Tamineh’s maidens arranged for a 
meeting between their mistress and Rustum. Eventually they 


/-_, a 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 111 


‘were married, but shortly after the nuptials Rustum, as has been 
already related, was summoned by the king to lead important cam- 
paigns. It is worthy of note in this connection that in the Orient 
la strong attachment to the mother is universal. 

596. bruited up: spread abroad, noised abroad. 

613. style: name, or title. 

625. her father: that is, the king of Samenegan. 

626. His wandering guest was Rustum. 

632. Like his own son would have been. 

658-60. Here Arnold has again modified the story of the Shah 
Nameh, which says that Rustum gave Tamineh an onyx as an 
amulet to be given to their child as a means of identification. For 
this is substituted, in Arnold’s poem, the seal pricked (tattooed) on 
Sohrab’s arm. Can you give the reasons for making such a change? 

664. corslet: breastplate. 

672. cunning: skillful, deft. 

679. griffin: the marvelous Simurgh that cared for Zal when 
his father left him to die on the mountain. See note on line 82. 

700-701. Casting dust on one’s head was the Eastern fashion of 
expressing deep grief or humiliation. 

708-15. The first part of Sohrab’s speech is a good example of that 
“ fatalism ’’ which is so characteristic of Eastern thought. The 
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, a Persian poet of the twelfth century, 
is strongly marked by this spirit. The following lines are typical: 


“The moving finger writes, and having writ 
Moves on: nor all your piety nor wit 
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, 
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.” 


Other examples of fatalism are seen in lines 387-97, 836-7. 
710. unconscious hand: In the Shah Nameh: 
“Such is my destiny, such is the will of fortune. 
It was decreed that I should perish by the hand of my father.” 
722-5. In the Shah Nameh: 
“ T came like a flash of lightning, and now I depart hke the wind.” 
CheJopnv ilar 


“O remember that my life is wind; mine eyes shall see no more 
good.” 


iL by NOTES. 


751. Helmund: a river of Afghanistan. 

752. Zirrah: a lake in Afghanistan, now almost dry. 

763-4. Moorghab, Tejend, Kohik: rivers of Turkestan, which 
lose their waters in the great desert south of Bokhara. 

765. the northern Sir: the Jaxartes River. 

783-9. The Shah Nameh tells us that all Sohrab’s wishes were 
carried out. A thousand horses were sacrificed; then a great pro- 
cession led by the chiefs bore the body to Seistan. When the fu- 
neral rites were concluded, the corpse was covered with a yellow robe 
and placed in a bier of aloes. Above the dead youth was raised a 
sepulchral mound, “ formed like a charger’s hoof.” The last sixty 
lines of the episode in the original poem are devoted to a descrip- 
tion of Tamineh’s grief for her lost son. 

815-7. With this, compare David’s lament for Absalom, IT Samuel 
XVIII, 33. 


‘And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber 
over the gate, and wept: and as he wept, thus he said, O my 
son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died 
for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son! ”’ 


830-4. Kai Khosroo after Afrasiab’s death determined to spend the 
rest of his days in retirement. He therefore divided his kingdom 
among his nobles, and with a few attendants went to a spring fixed 
upon as the place of his rest. ‘Then he suddenly disappeared, and all 
who went with him were drowned on the return voyage. From the 
words of Sohrab in these lines we should infer that Rustum was 
among those who perished. But according to the Shah Nameh the 
great champion was killed through the wiles of his brother Shugdad 
when they were on a hunting expedition. 

861. Jemshid was a mythical Persian king, whose glory and mis- 
fortune were a constant theme of the Persian poets. 

Persepolis was the ancient capital of Persia, the seat of Jemshid. 

866. sole: lonely. 

878. Chorasmian waste: a desert region of Turkestan, now known 
as Khorassim. 

880. Right for the polar star: that is, due north. 

Orgunjé is a small village on the Oxus about 70 miles below Khiva, 
and situated at the head of the river delta. 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 113 


890. luminous home: the shining spaces of the Aral Sea. 

891. new-bathed stars: As the stars rise above the horizon of the 
sea, they appear to have come up out of the water. 

875-92. In these closing lines, Arnold has given two beautiful pic- 
tures. One shows the great hosts going about their routine work 
and taking their evening meal; the other, the majestic Oxus flowing 
on unmoved by the tragedy just enacted on its banks. The artistic 
value of such an ending is important. It throws into high relief the 
passions of anger and grief which have gone before, and it leaves 
with the reader an impression of the inevitable march of fate. 
Such endings are characteristic of the author’s works — peace after 
pain, rest after the turbulent passions of life. 


TYPICAL PASSAGES FROM SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 


Through the black Tartar tents he passed, which stood 
Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand 

Of Oxus, where the summer floods o’erflow 

When the sun melts the snow in high Pamere. 


In the country, on a morn in June, 
When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, 
A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy. 


Dear as the wet diver to the eyes 
Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore, 
By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf 
Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night, 
Having made up his tale of precious pearls 
Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands. 


The poor drudge 
Who with numb blackened fingers makes her fire, — 
At cock-crow, on a star-lit winter morn, 
When the frost flowers the whitened window-panes. 


Like some young cypress, tall and dark and straight, 
Which in a queen’s secluded garden throws 

Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf, 

By midnight, to a bubbling fountain’s sound. 


pe 


NOTES. 


His giant figure planted on the sand, 

Sole, like some single tower, which a chief 
Hath builded on the waste in former years 
Against the robbers. 


For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, 
Poised on the top of a huge wave of fate, 
Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall. 


As when some hunter in the spring hath found 
A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, 

Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake, 

And pierced her with an arrow as she rose, 
And followed her to find her where she fell 
Far off; anon her mate comes winging back 
From hunting, and a great way off descries 
His huddling young left sole; at that, he checks 
His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps 
Circles above his eyry, with loud screams 
Chiding his mate back to her nest; but she 
Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, 

In some far stony gorge out of his ken, 

A heap of fluttering feathers, — never more 
Shall the lake glass her, flying over it ; 

Never the black and dripping precipices 

Echo her stormy scream as she sails by. 

For he remembered his own early youth, 

And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn, 
The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descries 
A far, bright city, smitten by the sun, 
Through many rolling clouds. 


As a cunning workman, in Pekin, 
Pricks with vermillion some clear porcelain vase, 
An emperor’s gift, — at early morn he paints, 


And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp 


Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands. 


But the majestic river floated on, 
Out of the mist and hum of that low lana, 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 115 


Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, 
Rejoicing, through the hushed Chroasmian waste, 
Under the solitary moon; he flowed 

Right for the polar star, past Orgunjé, 

Brimming, and bright, and large. 


QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION BASED ON 


nS 


10. 


le 


12. 


13. 


SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 


Why did Arnold call his poem an “ episode ”’? 

What characteristics of epic poetry are found in the poem? 

To what extent has the author departed from the original story 
as told in the Shah Nameh? What is gained by these modifica- 
tions? 

Arnold’s method of supplying the antecedent information nec- 
essary to a full understanding of the story. 

Comment upon the use of proper names. 

What do you understand by “‘fatalism’’? At what points 
in the poem is it suggested? What effect is gained thereby? 
What is meant by “local color’? Show how Arnold employs 
this device to increase the effectiveness of his poem. 

What dramatic effect is gained by the conversation between 
Sohrab and Rustum before the fight? 

What means are employed by Arnold to intensify the pathos of 
Sohrab’s death? 

A critic has spoken of the ‘‘ classic clearness and restraint ”’ of 
Arnold’s verse. Show how these qualities are manifested in 
Sohrab and Rustum. 

In what respects is the quality of Arnold’s poetry heightened by 
the use of simile and metaphor? Select two or three instances 
which seem to you especially appropriate. 

Write a careful criticism of the opening and closing passages — 
lines 1-4, and lines 875-92. Wherein are they themselves 
effective, and how do they add to the artistic quality of the 
poem? 

Explain, or comment upon, the following: 

The black Tartar tents. High Pamere. Felts. An old man’s 
sleep. The conquering Tartar ensigns. In Seistan, with Zal, 


116 NOTES. 


his father old. Dim is the rumor of a common fight. Some 
frore Caspian reed-bed. Aloof he sits. Kai Khosroo. With 
my great name fence that weak old man. The baleful sign of 
fevers. Curled minion. That seal which Rustum to my 
mother gave. Thou art Heaven’s unconscious hand. It was 
writ in Heaven that this should be. By Jemshid in Per- 
sepolis. The hushed Chorasmian waste. The shorn and par- 
celled Oxus. 


ENOCH ARDEN. 


Enoch Arden was first published in 1864 in a volume entitled 
Enoch Arden and Other Poems. It is a story of humble joys and 
sorrows, like some of the tales told fifty and sixty years earlier by 
Crabbe and Wordsworth. The subject was not new; many such 
occurrences must have taken place in the old sailing-ship days. 
The adventures of shipwrecked mariners have made themes for 
many writers of prose and verse ever since Robinson Crusoe was 
cast away on his island. The essentially original part of Enoch 
Arden lies in the close, which differs materially from the usual end 
ing where the wanderer returns to be welcomed, or to claim his 
rights, and “‘ lives happily ever after.’”” Tennyson prefers the note 
of pathos and of noble self-sacrifice. 

Of the origin of his poem the poet wrote: ‘‘ Hnoch Arden (like 
Aylmer’s Field) is founded on a theme given me by the sculptor 
Woolner. I believe that this particular story came out of Suffolk, 
but something like the same story is told in Brittany and elsewhere.” 
The poem is well suited to Tennyson’s genius, and shows his char- 
acteristic power to present pictures that are full of light and color 
and vivid detail. He aimed to write a quiet unadorned narrative ; 
the note has been kept low, while the humanity of the situation is 
conceived with full power. Thus, in the end Arden rises superior 
to fate. He might have died a weakling, but he conquers his misery 
and even after the realization of his sorrow is “ not all unhappy.” 

For the most part the poem is marked by extreme simplicity of 
structure. Some of the critics have said, however, that the de- 
scriptive passages are too ornate for so plain a tale — that the 
poem, in a word, is loaded down with ornament. Whether or not 


ENOCH ARDEN. ality 


this be true (and it is to a large extent a matter for personal judgment), 
Enoch Arden has always been popular and few of Tennyson’s poems 
are more widely read to-day. It has been dramatized, and translated 
at various times into seven European languages. Indeed, for clear- 
ness of outline, sincerity of feeling, and straight-forwardness of lan- 
guage, it ranks among the best of Tennyson’s poems of English life. 

1-9. It is well to note, from the very first, Tennyson’s power of 
making every word count. His command of the effective phrase — 
the “ inevitable word ’’ — appears over and over again in this poem, 
as it does in everything he wrote. In this opening passage there is 
not a word thrown away, not a line wasted. The effect is extraor- 
dinarily vivid. Other sections which show the mastery of language 
and the fruits of close and accurate observation may be indicated: 
lines 15-18, 91-100, 129-31, 375-80, 537-46, 568-95, 605-8, 654-7. 

The first lines of the poem describe a little seaport on the east 
coast of England. The scene is typical, with the single long street 
climbing to the downs at the cliff-top, the clustered houses, and the 
ancient church. 

5. So the land would appear to one looking up from the village. 

7. Danish barrows: funeral mounds. The Danes invaded Eng- 
land in the ninth and tenth centuries and for a time held all the 
eastern coast. It was their custom to erect great ‘‘ barrows ”’ on 
the cliffs to their dead. Even to-day some remains of these barrows 
may be traced. 

10. The hundred years would of course place the date of the story 
at about 1760-1800. Why does Tennyson set it in the past rather 
than in the present? 

36. This is an unconscious prophecy. ‘The supernatural element 
enters into the poem in several places. The prophecies, Annie’s 
dream, and her reliance upon the passage in the Bible (490-506) 
to shape her decision, make the story seem more true to the life of 
the simple-mindéd fisher-folk. 

54. full sailor: as we should say, “‘ able seaman.” 

67-8. That is, just where the hazel-wood began to grow down the 
slope of the hollow. 

80-1. This is an example of “‘ onomatopceia’’ — the use of sound 
to imitate the sense. The melody of these lines helps to picture the 
joyfulness presented by the words. Cf. lines 507-8 


118 NOTES. 


94. ocean-smelling osier: basket smelling of the sea. 

96. market-cross: Many towns and villages had a cross erected 
conspicuously in the market-place. From its steps public announce- 
ments were made, and around it on market-days the principal trad- 
ing took place. The cross was in various ways the center of village 
life. : 

98. portal-warding lion-whelp: the carved stone lions at the gate- 
entrance to the Hall, or residence of the nobleman of the county. 

99. peacock yew tree: the yew tree was trimmed to the shape of a 
peacock. Such treatment of the evergreen trees is common in Eng- 
lish formal gardens. A beautiful description of such a garden is 
found in Kipling’s story, They. 

100. Friday fare: fish was usually eaten on Fridays, in avcordance 
with a custom of the church. The whole passage, lines 92-100, has 
been commented on as being too highly decorative. One critic 
remarked: ‘‘So much has not often been made of selling fish.” 
What is your own opinion? 

110. A competitor was taking his work in his absence. 

131. isles a light in the offing: lets the sun shine on a single spot 
far out at sea, the rest of the scene being momentarily darkened. 
This is a common phenomenon in cloudy weather on the coast, but 
the expression of it here is wonderfully condensed and accurate. 

154. appraised: guessed. 

167. bore it thro’: carried out his purpose. 

168. his old sea-friend: his fishing-boat. 

174-5. A touch of warning; it suggests future trouble. 

177. order’d: arranged carefully. 

186. that mystery: of prayer. See the beautiful linesin The Pass- 
ing of Arthur: 


‘“ More things are wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of... . 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them friend? * 
For thus the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.” 


ENOCH ARDEN. 119 


205-9. Tennyson considered this one of the tenderest similes he 
had written. Of the similes in this poem in general, he said that 
he thought they were all such as might have naturally been used 
by plain seafaring people. 

210-12. Another unconscious prophecy. 

218-26. Enoch’s parting words are simple and manly, quite typical 
of the man. Note how his language reflects both his sailor’s life and 
his honest and truthful religious feeling. For the Biblical quota- 
tions, see I Peter V, 7; Hebrews VI, 19; Psalms CXXXIX, 7, 
9-10; XCV, 5. 

247. to chime with his: to do as he wished. 

265-6. Lack of money to pay the doctor. 

285. passion: deep grief. 

326. garth: garden, an obsolete word of Anglo-Saxon origin. See 
also line 671. ‘Tennyson was fond of these old-fashioned, but very 
expressive words, and revived a number of them in his poetry. 

337. conies: rabbits. 

339. To save the offence of charitable: To avoid offending her by 
appearing to give through mere charity. 

364. Blanch’d with his mill: whitened with flour-dust. 

370-1. Cf. lines 67-8. Do you see the significance of this repeti- 
tion ? 

376. the whitening hazels: the light-colored under side of the 
hazel-leaves are turned upwards as the children plunge through. 

444-7. The poet brings out here the fine quality of Philip’s con- 
sideration for Annie. 

457-9. What impression of Annie’s character do you gain from 
these lines? 

470. Annoyance that their calculations had turned out wrong. 

491-3. The method of divination used by Annie is known as 
“ Sortes Biblice,”’ or ‘‘Bibliomancy.’’ The Bible is opened at random 
and the first passage that is touched by the finger is supposed to give 
the desired information. The Greeks and Romans applied in the 
same way to the poetry of Homer and Vergil. Bibliomancy was 
much used by the Puritans, and belief in its efficacy may still be 
found in remote parts of England and Scotland. 

494. Cf. Judges IV, 5. 

502. Cf. St. John XII, 13; St. Matthew XXI, 9; St. Mark XT, 10. 


120 NOTES. 


506. So: if. The usage is peculiar, though found elsewhere in 
Tennyson’s poems. With the future or subjunctive ‘‘ so ” is equiva- 
lent to “‘if,’”’ or ‘ provided that.” 

507-9. These lines form a good example of Tennyson’s metrical 
skill. The first two (as in 80-1), are onomatopoetic; the rapid 
movement indicates the joyful ringing. The change of feeling is 
suggested in line 509 by the changed accent of “ merrily.” 

510-16. With this mysterious instinct, compare the presentiment 
in lines 174—5, and 609-12. 

523-33, 537-49. These passages show Tennyson’s power as an 
interpreter of the sea. Other examples may be found in The Mer- 
man, The Sailor Boy, The Revenge, The Voyage, Sea Dreams. 

525. the Biscay: the Bay of Biscay, notorious for rough weather. 

528. long tumble about the Cape: The usual route to India and 
China in those days was round the Cape of Good Hope. Here 
sailors invariably met the ‘ roaring forties ’’ — the tremendous seas 
of those southerly latitudes. . 

565. Fire-hollowing, etc.: burning out the log to make a canoe, 
after the fashion of the Indians. 

568-95. Although Tennyson longed all his life to visit the tropics, 
he never had an opportunity of doing so. Travelers have borne 
witness, however, to the undeniable truth and beauty of the picture 
of a tropical island here unfolded. The whole passage was one 
which the poet liked to read aloud. 

568. lawns: open spaces. Cf. The Vision of Sin: 


‘““ As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, 
Dreams cover lake and lawn, and isles and capes.” 


Compare also Milton, L’ Allegro: 


‘‘ Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray.”’ 


and Moore, Echoes: 


‘‘ How sweet the answer Echo makes 
To Music at night; 
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes 
And far away o’er lawns and lakes 
Goes answering light! ”’ 


ENOCH ARDEN. 121 


570. coco’s: the cocoa-nut tree. 
580. In this line the poet imitates the surge of the sea. Kipling 
has a somewhat similar passage in his The English Flag: 


“‘ The long-backed breakers croon 
Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon.” 


593. In allusion to the apparent size of the stars, as seen in the 
tropics. 

594. An instance of close observation. Itisa fact that the roar of 
the surf seems to grow louder as the night goes on. For a like 
thought, see The Valley of Cauterez: 


‘* All along the valley, stream that flashest white, 
Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night. . . .” 


The closing lines (587-95) make a fine summary of the loneliness and 
the splendor which surrounded the shipwrecked man. 

601. the line: the Equator. 

602-8. Note the strong contrast to the picture of the island. 

609-13. The mysterious sympathy through which Enoch heard the 
far-distant pealing of the bells for Annie’s marriage is another touch 
of the supernatural. The poet had warrant for what he wrote. 
“Mr. Kinglake told me,’ he said, “ that he heard his own parish 
bells in the desert on a Sunday morning when they would have been 
ringing at home: and added, ‘I might have had a singing in my 
ears, and the imaginative memory did the rest.’’’ For a descrip- 
tion of a somewhat similar thought communication, see Aylmer’s 
Field, lines 578 ff. Other instances will be found in The Lover’s Tale, 
Rizpah, and The Wreck. 

627. since: here, “‘ because.” 

640-1. Cf. St. Mark, VII, 35; St. Luke, I, 64. 

649. his country: his part of the country. 

657. her ghostly wall: the fog-wreathed cliffs; or, the familiar 
white cliffs of the southern coast — “‘ the white cliffs of old England.” 

659. Took up a collection for him. 

665-75. A singularly effective picture of the coming of a sea-fog. 
Any one who has lived in a seaport will realize the fidelity of the 
description. 

What was Tennyson’s purpose in suggesting this change in the 
appearance of nature? 


Ney NOTES. 


671. holt: group of trees; tilth: tilled fields. See note on 326. 

688. timber-crost antiquity: In the older type of building, the 
supporting beams were frequently carried up outside the walls. 

698. annals: past happenings. 

715-6. Cf. The Passing of Arthur: 


“ His own thought drove him like a goad.” 
724-6. Cf. Longfellow, The Lighthouse: 


‘“‘' The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din 
Of wings and wind and melancholy cries, 
Blinded and maddened by the glare within 
Dashes himself against the glare, and dies.” 


733. shingle: large pebbles. In England a ‘“‘ shingle ”’ beach 
means one composed of stones larger than the ordinary pebble. 

762. A truth which is powerfully enforced by the setting. 

776-87. If Tennyson had been morbid, or sentimental, he would 
have had the long-lost husband meet his wife, and thus have spoiled 
the artistic effect of the tragedy. As it is, the poem ends upon a 
note of noble self-sacrifice. 

803. enow: enough — an obsolete form. 

812. tall barks: Cf. Masefield, Sea Fever: 


“ All I ask is a tall ship, 
And a star to steer her by.” 


813. stinted commerce: lessened trade. 

834. swear upon the book: on the Bible, which of course made 
the oath more binding. 

842. far away: long ago. 

860-4. An excellent characterization of the talkative and unedu- 
cated country-woman. 

870-97. Besides the deepest pathos, there is real nobility of 
thought in these last words of Enoch Arden. We both pity the 
speaker and respect him. “ There is : . . something profoundly 
sad in the way in which that desolate heart, after half claiming 
back the living children, feels that, in real fact, only the dead little 
one is left it.” 

897-901. Another interesting bit of characterization. The first 
two lines imitate by their sound the chatter of Miriam Lane. 


ENOCH ARDEN, | 123 


904. a calling of the sea: Tennyson said of this expression : ‘‘ The 
calling of the sea is a term used, I believe, chiefly in the Western 
parts of England, to signify a ground swell. When this occurs on 
a windless night, the echo of it rings through the timbers of the old 
houses in a haven.” 

911. a costlier funeral: A sound knowledge of human nature is 
shown by the choice of the word “ costlier.’” Can you explain why 
Tennyson used it? 


TYPICAL PASSAGES FROM ENOCH ARDEN. 


He thrice had plucked a life 
From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas. 


His face 
Rough-reddened with a thousand winter gales. 


Some little cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 
And isles a light in the offing. 


As the village girl, 
Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring 
Musing on him who used to fill it for her, 
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 


The lazy gossip of the port. 


Faint as a figure seen at early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue. 


A seaward-gazing mountain gorge. 


The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, 

The league-long roller thundering on the reef, 
The moving whisper of huge trees that branch’d 
And blossom’d in the zenith, or the sweep 

Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave. 

The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 

Among the palms and ferns and precipices. 


124 


NOTES. 


The chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, 
And the low moan of leaden-color’d seas. 


The mate had seen at early dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle. 
The silent water slipping from the hills. 


The dewy meadowy morning-breath 
Of England, blown across her ghostly wall. 


Thro’ the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down. 


The ruddy square of comfortable light, 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip’s house. 


There came so loud a calling of the sea, 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 


QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION BASED ON 


S 


ENOCH ARDEN. 


Before Enoch Arden was written, a friend of Tennyson’s said: 
““ Alfred wants a story to treat, being full of poetry with noth- 
ing to put it in.” In reading the poem, are you more im- 
pressed by the ‘‘ story,” or by the “ poetry ”? 

Make a list of picturesque phrases found in the poem. 
Make a list of the unusual or archaic words, and comment upon 
their poetic value. 

‘Ornate,’ and “ decorative,’ are epithets sometimes applied 
to Tennyson’s style. Discuss their appropriateness as applied 
to Enoch Arden. Use quotations to illustrate what you say. 
Select two or three descriptive passages which seem to you 
typical of the author. Comment upon their characteristic 
teatures. . 

Pick out some instances of the poet’s close observation of 
nature. vf 


) 


ENOCH ARDEN. | 125 


7. Comment upon the characters of Enoch, Philip, and Annie, as 
these are developed in the poem. 

8. Write an explanatory comment upon the following statement : 
‘“‘ There is no excess or defect of any human passion that might 
have worked his doom for any. Here no one sins except life 
itself ; and for the evil of bare human life Nemesis may in some 
sense be reserved.”’ 

9. Judging by this poem, should you say that Tennyson was more 
successful in his interpretation of domestic life, or in his de- 
scriptions of scenery ? 

10. The elements of pathos and tragedy, as employed in the closing 
portion of the poem — lines 622-911. 

11. Explain, or comment upon, the following: 
Danish barrows. Anchors of rusty fluke. The prone edge 
of the wood. Had his dark hour unseen. The market-cross. 
Isles a light in the offing. His old sea-friend. That mystery 
where God-in-man is one with man-in-God. The little garth. 
Conies from the down. Abhorrent of a calculation crossed. 
Long tumble about the Cape. Blossomed in the zenith. The 
hollower-bellowing ocean. His long-bounden tongue. Holt 
or tilth or pasturage. Timber-crost antiquity. A calling of 
the sea. 


GENERAL QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION. 


1. Compare the blank verse of Sohrab and Rustum and Enoch 
Arden. What seem to you the characteristics of each type? 
In what respects does each reflect the literary qualities of the 
author ? 

2. Which of the three poems shows the highest imaginative power? 
The greatest beauty of language? The closest knowledge of 
nature? The deepest pathos? The clearest analysis of charac- 
ter? Illustrate what you say by quotations. 

3. “‘ There is a simplicity of manner in each of the poems; but the 
simplicity while in each case appropriate, is in each case dis- 
tinctive.”’ 

Write an explanatory comment upon this statement. 

4, From what you know of the lives of the three poets, indicate 

to what extent their lives influenced their poetry. 


12¢ 


10. 


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12. 


NOTES. 


Selecta typical descriptive passage from each poem. Give care- 
ful reasons for your choice. 
Which of the three poems is in your opinion most satisfactory 
as a piece of narrative writing? Most beautiful as a poem? 
Make a detailed comparative study of the following passages: 

The Ancient Mariner, lines 358-372. 

Sohrab and Rustum, lines 556-572. 

Enoch Arden, lines 568-595. 
Compare the sea-pictures in The Ancient Mariner with those in 
Enoch Arden. Discuss, from the point of view of truth to life 
and imaginative quality. 
What do you understand by the ‘‘ atmosphere ”’ of a poem? 
What methods are employed by each author to create an at- 
mosphere? 
Compare, or contrast, the opening of the poems. In each case, 
comment upon the purpose which the author had in view. 
Compare, or contrast, the closing portions of the poems. What 
special methods are employed by each author to attain his 
purpose? Consider both the thought and the expression. 
Write a note upon the following aids to poetic effect, as you find 
them in the poems under discussion : 
Simile. Metaphor. Onomatopoeia. Climax. 


UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA : 


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or Sh Pot Ris ete Sh St oa od Se ee bee eee Seen mee et ere eee 


